


Where You Can't Quite Reach

by SilverDragon00



Series: Oliver Scott 'Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Canon Divergence, Depression, Drama, Eventual Johnlock, Gen, M/M, Oliver Scott Holmes (Sherlock's Son), Panic Attacks, Parent!lock, Post-Reichenbach, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 18:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDragon00/pseuds/SilverDragon00
Summary: Sherlock took his life four months ago, and John's found himself in a pit of self-destruction and depression he doesn't care to climb out of.Then Mycroft shows up with someone John didn't even know existed - Sherlock's thirteen year old son - and asks John to take care of him.John doesn't know if he can handle living with another Holmes, especiallythisone who looks so like the one he lost. John has to pull himself together and deal with his own emotions, while trying to raise his best friend's teenager.Until everything he works hard to create for them is turned upside down by the one person he never expected to see again.





	1. Prologue

Sherlock’s death left a gaping numb hole in John’s chest, and nothing could fill it. He left the flat a total of five times since the funeral almost four months ago. Words disguised with kindness were use to fire him from his job after not coming in for so long. He hadn’t answered a single phone call from anyone he knew, and Mrs Hudson had threatened to institutionalize him if he didn’t start eating more often. His limp came back, and his cane taunted him everytime he stood up.

The world turned grey and as much as John couldn’t stand to be alone in 221B, his fear of going back to that tiny dreary apartment he started off in kept him there. But boredom consumed him  _ constantly _ . Somedays he just laid on the couch, covering his ears because he’s afraid that if he looks up he’ll see the flare of a belstaff or hear the clinking of beakers in the kitchen. It’s scary, because the flat used to be so  _ alive _ and now it was just  _ still _ and he never realized how much space Sherlock took up and now he’s  _ gone _ and the sound is  _ gone _ and what even was the point?

It’s one of the days when John can’t seem to do anything but let his mind fill the silence that Mycroft drops in. The man gave all but a knock before stepping into the living room. John didn’t have to look up to know it was Mycroft. Mrs Hudson never knocked (he thinks she’s afraid of him not answering again and finding his unconscious body in the kitchen) and the third step of the umbrella gave it away.

“Piss off,” John said, not even turning to look at him.

“Really, John, I thought you were above such treatment of your guests.”

John sat up and gave the man a dirty look. “You’re not a guest here. You don’t even like me.”

“On the contrary. I find your presence… bearable,” Mycroft’s eyes were flitting around the mess of a flat. Beer bottles all over the floor, dishes piled up in the kitchen. A thin layer of dust covered Sherlock’s armchair, and boxes were scattered around in John’s half-attempts at packing up his late friend’s things. Mrs Hudson offered to help, and wanted to donate the science equipment to schools but John couldn’t bring himself to let her.

Now they floated around, science equipment and books taunting him from open boxes and stacks. The only things he had moved out of sight where the violin and skull. Those were both in Sherlock’s room, with the Belstaff - John didn’t like looking at them.

“Oh ta,” John rolled his eyes and laid back down, his back to Mycroft. A headache began to ebb across his skull. He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember the last time he’d eaten.

“I also know you’re trustworthy. And I… want to help.”

John turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Mycroft gestured around the flat, his lips curling. “What do you do anymore? You’re jobless, practically friendless, you never leave this flat-”

“Yeah, thanks from rubbing all that in. And stop spying on me.”

Mycroft sighed, his face lost the look of disgust and took on one of pity that made John’s stomach twist. “I have a proposition.”

“Oh, yeah?” John asked sarcastically. 

“Humor me,” Mycroft responded. He took a breath, “Would you consider taking care of a child for a period of time?”

John sat up again. “ _ What? _ ”

“You heard me.”

Sliding off the couch, leaning heavily on his left leg, John gave Mycroft a hard look. “Care to explain where this is coming from? Take care of a child?  _ Why? _ ”

“John, you’re a soldier and a doctor and you have this overwhelmingly sentimental desire to take care of other people -”

“I don’t -”

“You can barely function alone, look at yourself, it’s disgraceful.” Mycroft said. He paused and looked away for a moment, clearing his throat. “I consider you… a friend… and so do many others who hate to see you wasting away like this.”

John scoffed and shook his head. “You just said I’m barely functioning, what makes you think I can take care of someone else?”

“Well, look what happened when you moved in with Sherlock.”

John didn’t answer, just crossed his arms and looked away - because Mycroft was  _ right _ . John had been in a horrible state of mind before he met Sherlock, and after moving into 221B with him, John had an instinct to make sure Sherlock ate and took care of himself. Consequently, John took better care of himself too. 

He didn’t like being alone, the quiet sounded too loud and his mind wandered too freely. Thinking, thinking and thinking consumed his time, with no distractions, leading to his mind spiraling into itself. He needed to  _ do _ something. To look out for other people, that’s what his gut wanted.

“Why are you doing this?” He eventually asked, his voice quiet.

Mycroft’s eyes leveled with John. “It’s what Sherlock would have wanted.”

John sighed and ran his head through his hair, looking away. He wanted to argue. He did. John wanted to ask where Mycroft had the right to say something like that and  _ how would he know _ ? But John didn’t. He was tired.

Mycroft continued, “It’s not… a random child either. Which is another reason I bring  _ you _ this proposition.”

“Who is it, then?” John couldn’t think of a single child he currently knew, nor anyone who had a child. Molly had niece, John recalled, but he didn’t even know her name.

“It’s Sherlock’s son.”

John stared at him.

“I know that may be quite the shock, but -”

“Sherlock’s  _ son? _ ”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “Yes, very good, keep up. As I was saying -”

John shook his head, “Wait hold on, how does Sherlock have a  _ child? _ ”

“Well, John,” Mycroft started in that condescending tone he liked to use, “When a male and a female -”

“Mycroft, you prat, you know what I mean.”

“Such vulgarity.” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella. “Back when Sherlock was a junkie, high off his arse on who knows what, a woman took advantage of his mindless state and ended up pregnant.”

“God,” breathed John.

“She died in labor, too many drugs in her system, but not before giving Sherlock’s name. It took barely a few days before someone caught wind of it. ‘Holmes’ isn’t exactly a common surname,” explained Mycroft. “Sherlock was in rehab at this time, and no-one believed him suitable to take care of a baby.”

“What did you do with the baby?”

“Our parents took him in,” Mycroft said. “They were delighted, Mummy always loved children. That’s where he’s been since.”

“And Sherlock? Did he ever try to get custody after rehab?” asked John. He couldn’t actually picture Sherlock taking care of a child, or having any interest in doing so. The amusing image of Sherlock chasing after a toddler graced his thoughts, but darker ones chased it away.

“He did, surprisingly,” Mycroft said, then looked down to his shoes. “Our parents wouldn’t let him. My brother forget to feed  _ himself _ half the time, they didn’t think he was capable.”

John ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Why didn’t Sherlock ever mention a son?”

“Perhaps he thought it unnecessary. He used to visit the boy often during his childhood, but rarely did later on.”

John wanted to be upset at Sherlock for never telling him, but it made sense. The subject of children never came up between them, let alone either of them  _ having _ children. John supposed he assumed Sherlock as a virgin, so he had no reason to suspect. After a moment of thinking about it, he said, “You want me to take care of him? What of your parents?”

“They are getting older, and the boy is a teenager now. My mother has already approached me about taking custody of the boy, as they noticed he’s getting restless and they think he’d prefer to be in a more populated area,” explained Mycroft. “But I’m unfit to care for a child. I’m hardly home, and I’m not good with them.”

“You think  _ I’m _ fit to care for a child?” asked John, raising an eyebrow. He had to be joking.

“Yes,” Mycroft answer earnestly.

Oh.

Mycroft continued. “I could bring him by, if you’d like to meet him first. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ll cover his expenses and schooling. I’d owe you greatly just for looking after him.”

John worried his lip between his teeth. “How old is he?”

“He’ll be fourteen in a few weeks.”

John really didn’t know if he could take care of a child, let alone a teenager. His last session in therapy (two months ago, as he’d been too lost in his own mind to leave the flat since), he’d been diagnosed with depressed (again). He didn’t want to neglect the boy just because sadness filled his every waking moment, making it hard to do anything half the time.

Then again, what Mycroft had said earlier made sense. His urge to take care of someone else would fuel him to start moving again. Maybe this could be a good thing; and it was  _ Sherlock’s _ son. He could do it - for Sherlock if nothing else.

“All right,” John nodded. “All right, bring him ‘round and I’ll meet him.”

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said, his lips quirking into as close to a smile as the man could manage. “I’ll bring him by tomorrow, noon,” Mycroft looked around the flat once more. “You should probably do something with… this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye Mycroft,” John huffed, ushering him towards the door.

Mycroft nodded goodbye and left the flat. John let out a breath and turned around to survey the mess. Logically the boy should have Sherlock’s room. Which meant opening the door for the first time in three and a half months.

John took a shower and changed into something he hadn’t been wearing for days in a row, went down to Mrs Hudson’s and explained everything. John’s decision delighted Mrs Hudson, as well as the revelation about the boy, and she came upstairs to help him finish putting things in boxes and clean up a bit. She did most the the washing, and John tossed the embarrassing amount of alcoholic containers and the few take away boxes littering the floor. 

They both stepped into Sherlock’s room and a wave of nausea hit John because it still smelt of everything  _ Sherlock _ . He stepped out and took a deep breath, gripping his cane with white knuckles.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he murmured.

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson put a hand on his arm. “Of course you can. Just take a moment and breathe.”

He nodded and took another deep breath. “All right.”

They went into his room. Dust floated about, and notes covered one of the walls floor to ceiling in news clippings and photographs, all tracking Moriarty and his web. John felt bile in the back of his throat and started ripping it all down in a hurry. Mrs Hudson drew back the curtains and opened the window without commenting on John’s rush to rid of the evidence.

John boxed up the books and few papers that looked important then changed the bed sheets while Mrs Hudson took the clothing out of his wardrobe and boxed it up. 

“John dear, look,” She said, and John turn to see her smiling, holding a book that had been hidden in a drawer. ‘ _ Encyclopedia of the Solar System’ _ and John laughed. He really laughed, because of the ridiculousness of it - Sherlock had said knowledge of space was useless, but proof that John’s teasing had prompted the man to learn sat in his hands.

Mrs Hudson laughed too, and passed the book to John. He flipped it open, the pages looked a bit worn and the corner of some of them folded down. He flipped to one of the marked pages: ‘ _ Orbit of the Earth’ _ it read, and in red pen Sherlock had written the word  _ LIES  _ in capitals across the text. John chuckled and placed the book down in a box, underneath Sherlock’s gun and the skull. Mrs Hudson pulled the belstaff off the back of the door (where John had hung it after receiving it) and put it in the box after John made no move to.

Once the room was packed up, Mrs Hudson said he could use the abandoned 221C as storage. They moved the boxes down together. When John lifted the violin case, something twisted his heart, and he knew he couldn’t put it down in that room where it would sit among the dampness and collect dust. John didn’t know how to play the violin, but he brought it into his room and set it atop his wardrobe. He probably would ever open it, but black case gave him a small sense of comfort.

“I absolutely cannot wait to meet this boy, John,” Mrs Hudson said as she heated up some water for tea. “Can you even imagine? Sherlock having a child. Do you think he’ll be like either of those Holmes boys?”

“Couldn’t say, Mrs H,” John said, opening the fridge to see what he had for food. He’d need to shop, only a dozen or so beers and rotting bell pepper sat in the fridge.

He hoped the boy wasn’t too much like Sherlock. John didn’t know if he’d be able to handle a carbon copy of the man. The memories that would surface… it would hurt. He wouldn’t be able to take care of him.

“Well,” she said, handing him a mug of tea. “You’ll have to bring him down to meet me.”

“I will.” John took a sip of the tea, and it felt wonderful in his stomach. He probably should get rid of those beers in the fridge. And shave, he had quite the stubble going on, and he looked like death warmed over due to the little amount of sleep he received.

“Would you like to come down for dinner?” Offered Mrs Hudson.

John stomach threatened to expel the tea he had sipped at the thought and he shook his head. “No thank you. I’m not very hungry.”

She sighed and leaned her hands on the table, “I’ll let it slide this once, but if I find out you go another day without eating, I’ll be upset.”

“Don’t worry,” He gave her a half-attempt at a smile,hoping to reassure her

  


Laying in bed, still awake around two in the morning is when the thought passed through his mind,  _ what the hell have I agreed to? _

_  
_


	2. Beginning

John didn’t fall asleep until after three in the morning, the shadows in his bedroom taunting him and dancing like people, his mind racing through half-formed thoughts. Nightmares kept him tossing and turning. He woke up late, and it took longer than he would have liked to get out of bed - already the start to a bad day. He showered and shaved for the first time in days. It gave him the illusion of being “ _okay_ ” for ten minutes.

Mycroft knocked on the door at exactly noon, as John expected. He took a moment to count to ten and breathe, bracing himself for the likely resemblance the boy would have to Sherlock, before opening the door. He knew it would be difficult and tried to prepare for that.

All the air left his lungs, because he hadn’t prepared _enough_.

The boy stood tall, but not extremely so - the top of his head stopped below John’s chin, all gangly elbows and knees. His pale skin contrasted with his striking cerulean eyes, big like he hadn’t quite grown into them yet. Thick, wildly curly black hair fell into his eyes and tinted red where the light caught it. He wore a t-shirt that hung off his thin frame and had big headphones over his ears. He stared into the entrance way behind John, his lip caught between his teeth.

And he looked just like Sherlock.

“Good afternoon John,” Mycroft said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the boy slid one of the headphones off his ear. “This is Oliver. Oliver, say hello to Doctor John Watson.”

John quickly snapped out of his shock, and tried to offer a convincing smile, holding out his hand. “You can call me John.”

Oliver looked down at John’s hand, reaching out hesitantly. “Hello.” His hand was thin, and fingers long. John had fleeting thought wondering if he played violin as well, with hands like that. He finally tore his eyes away from the boy’s face and swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe.

John led both of them up to the flat, and set out the tea he had made, then sat in the chair next to the coffee table. Mycroft sat down on the couch, crossing his foot over his knee. Oliver looked around the flat, his blue eyes flicking to this and that, his headphones back over his ears, before he sat down next to Mycroft.

“Oliver, don’t be rude,” scolded Mycroft, and he took the headphones off of Oliver’s head so they hung around his pale neck.

“Sorry,” mumbled Oliver, crossing his arms and sinking down on the couch so his knees touched the coffee table. John couldn’t look at his face. He actually couldn’t, fearing he would vomit seeing _Sherlock’s_ face on this boy. He felt his stomach drop and he chest filled with cotton. What if he couldn’t do this?

“Tell John about yourself,” Urged Mycroft, nudging Oliver with his elbow. He picked up the mug of tea John offered him, and Oliver ignored his.

“What’s there to tell?” huffed Oliver.

“What do you do in school, Oliver?” tried John, taking a drink of his tea so he wouldn’t have to look up. The boy seemed agitated, and John could sympathize with that. He didn’t know how thrilled Oliver was to be moving in with his father’s former roommate - a stranger he had never met.

“Nothing,” Oliver half shrugged. “It’s boring.”

John put his mug back on the table. He could do this. He could make it work. “There must be a subject you enjoy. Maths?”

“I hate maths,” Seemed to be the end of _that_ conversation, as Oliver didn’t offer a response to anything else. He just kept his head turned, looking in the vague direction of the windows to avoid looking at Mycroft or John.

Mycroft shook his head. “I apologize for the attitude, John. He’s going through a bit of a… phase.”

Oliver scoffed. “ _Je ne veux pas être ici._ ”

Mycroft elbowed Oliver arm and snapped, “Oliver!”

John asked, “You speak French?”

“ _No_ ,” Oliver said sarcastically and John had to fight a smirk.

“Again, I apologize, John,” Mycroft said, giving Oliver a stern look.

“‘S all right,” John said, trying to show Oliver they were on the same side. “I can understand if he’s upset with having to move in with a perfect stranger.”

“It’s not like I had a say in it,” Oliver mumbled.

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Oliver…”

“It’s fine, Mycroft,” John said.

“Well, _I’ll_ tell you a bit about him, since he wants to behave like a child,” Mycroft said, looking pointedly at Oliver, who had turned his attention to picking at his nails. “He’s in year ten at school, which is a grade ahead of the norm, though he doesn’t take his studies seriously.”

“Impressive enough that he’s ahead,” John said, trying to warrant a reaction from the boy. Unsuccessful.

“He has an anxiety disorder, and a monthly prescription for it,” Mycroft said. John’s mind went to what he knew about anxiety. It could be genetic sometimes, but he doubted Oliver got it from Sherlock. It also had to be relatively inhibiting if he needed medication for it.

Oliver seemed a bit embarrassed by the conversation, judging my his increasing fascination with the skin around his nails.

The rest of the time Mycroft tried to get Oliver to engage in conversation, the boy didn’t care; bouncing his knee and giving short answers instead. Eventually, the men gave up and Mycroft decided they should leave. John offered his hand again, not looking at his face and Oliver shook it, then put his headphones back on and left the flat in a hurry.

Mycroft stayed, “As I said, a bit of a phase.”

“He’s a teenager,” John said, staring out the doorway Oliver had disappeared though. “It’s a striking resemblance.”

Mycroft’s lip formed a tight line. “Yes. It can be a bit unnerving. What do you think?”

“I’ve already cleared Sherlock’s room for him,” John said, running his hand through his hair. He leg started to ache. “If he wants to be here, I’ll have him.”

“Tomorrow? I can bring him and his things by in the afternoon.”

“That’s fine.”

Mycroft nodded, “Thank you, John.”

“Uncle!” Oliver called up the stairs.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft tugged his jacket back on, “Hopefully you can teach the boy some manners. Good day, John.”

John shut the door behind Mycroft and stepped over to the window and watched the teenager climb into the back of the car. He felt disconnected, it was so surreal. Sherlock’s _son_ had just been in his flat, and he looked every bit the part. John pulled a beer out of the fridge and popped it open. He could only hope he could keep himself together when the boy moved in. How long could he go not looking someone in the face because they resembled their deceased father?

That night John dreamed about Sherlock pushing him off the roof of Bart’s. He slept less than an hour.

* * *

 Two in the afternoon the next day, John opened the front door to see Mycroft, Oliver - headphones on and a bag over his shoulder (John immediately looked away) - and some faceless man that worked for Mycroft holding two cardboard boxes.

“Afternoon, John,” greeted Mycroft.

“Mycroft,” John stepped aside and motioned for them to come in. “Hello, Oliver.”

Oliver slipped his headphones off. “Hello.”

“These are his things,” Mycroft said, gesturing towards the boxes.

“Ah, here,” John took a box from the stack and led the man, Mycroft and Oliver up to the flat. He set the box down on the floor, and the man did the same then disappeared down the stairs.

“Oliver, your room is just through there if you want to unpack,” John said, looking past Oliver and towards the hall. “The door at the end of the hall.”

He nodded, put his headphones back on and adjusted his bag. He hefted the boxes up and walked through the kitchen to Sherlock’s old room.

“Has he said anything about moving in with me?” asked John, eyes trailing after the boy.

“Nothing explicitly,” Mycroft leaned on his ever present umbrella. “He starts school next Monday, it’s a new school but I stopped there on the way over so he knows where it is.”

“Do I need to bring him, or…”

“It’s less than a fifteen minute walk, I’m sure he can manage.”

John shuffled his feet a bit. “Are you sure about this? He doesn’t seem very happy.”

Mycroft shook his head. “He’s always like this. At least whenever I see him - he’s a moody teenager. Similar to Sherlock at his age.”

“Mycroft, I can’t even look him in the eye. What if I can’t-”

“Give him a chance,” Mycroft said. “If this really doesn’t work out, I can figure out a different situation for him. If you need anything I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, you’re leaving -”

Mycroft paused in turning to the door, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a thirteen year old.”

John glowered. “I just - what if this doesn’t work out?”

“Have some faith in yourself.”

Then he was gone. John sighed and peered through the kitchen doorway down the hall. Sherlock’s door - _Oliver’s_ door hung open and John could see his shadow moving about the room, the soft slide of drawers being closed. While deciding whether or not he wanted to start a conversation, Oliver’s arm appeared and pressed the door shut with a soft click. Guess not. Made it easier on John, then.

A few hours later John heard the creak of Sherlock’s - _no, Oliver’s. Oliver’s door_. For less than a second, John’s heart slammed into his ribcage at the familiar sound, before his brain caught up. He looked up from his spot on the couch, book balanced on his knee, and saw Oliver step the kitchen doorway, his hands in the pockets of his zip-up.

“That’s his old room isn’t it?” Oliver spoke the most words John had heard from him yet. Oliver pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Sherlock’s.”

John closed his book, set it down on the coffee table and picked up his beer. “I hope you don’t mind. It would have been a hassle to switch the furniture around since the other bedroom is upstairs.”

Oliver put his hand back in his pocket and stepped into the living room, facing Sherlock’s armchair. He moved past it and sat down in one of the chairs at the desk, and kept looking around the flat. John wondered if he could deduce things like Sherlock and Mycroft could. The same people raised them, they grew up in the same home. But - times also change. No doubt he was smart though - that, at least, seemed to be a Holmes trait.

“So, Oliver,” John started, and cerulean eyes flicked to his. John quickly looked away and took a deep breath. He focused his eyes on the table where Oliver had rested his hand. “What do you like to do? Hobbies? Interests?”

Oliver slouched in his chair a bit and shrugged. His headphones were around his neck and John worried he would put them on again.

John tried again. “You like music?”

“ _Obviously_.” Oliver rolled his eyes. John’s heart stopped in his chest.

He couldn’t do this. John couldn’t do this, why did he think he could, Oliver sounds _just like him_. John abruptly stood and didn’t register Oliver’s raised eyebrows as he almost tripped over the coffee table in a rush to get through the kitchen and into the bathroom. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet just before he vomit, gagging and gasping because all he could see were glassy blue eyes and red stained alabaster skin.

Visions of semi-smirks, blue eyes behind a magnifying glass, swishing of a coat and wind through curly hair danced behind his eyes. A baritone laugh ran through his ears, fading into a familiar song on a violin. Too much.

John coughed and spit, his eyes pricking and his grip on the porcelain bowl knuckle-whitening. He took a deep shuddering breath, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop thinking. Why did he think he could do this? Stupid. He couldn’t take care of a teenager. He couldn’t take care of _Sherlock’s teenager_.

The bathroom door creaked, and John jerked his head up.

“Are you all right?” asked Oliver’s soft voice. His pale hand held door handle.

John flushed the toilet and stood up. “Fine. Don’t mind me.” He leaned over the bathroom sink, picked up his toothbrush and turned on the faucet. John knew the unfairness of it, but he couldn’t look at the boy, his heart thudding too rapidly in his chest. He began brushing his teeth to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth, but he could see Oliver in the mirror, still standing there.

“Is it because I look like him?” Oliver asked, his voice hardly audible. John spit in the sink and turned off the water, then looked at his own tired eyes in the mirror. “I’m sorry if… if my being here causes you trouble.”

John turned to him. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t up for it.”

Oliver’s eyes widened and he ducked his head to look at the cracked floor tiles. “You miss him.”

“Constantly.” John answered. “Do you?

Oliver hesitated. “No. I barely knew him.”

Oliver _,_ John decided, was the lucky one of the two.

That night he had another nightmare, of Sherlock rising from his grave that day in the cemetery and dragging John into the coffin, trapping him for eternity. He shot awake and resigned himself to another sleepless night.

* * *

Oliver was already dressed by the time John woke up and limped into the living room. The boy had sat in John’s armchair, his legs curled up onto the cushion while he leaned over a notebook in his lap. His dark curls hung past his cheeks, obscuring most of his face and the light that filtered through the curtain shone off the maroon tint to his hair.

“Good morning,” John said, walking a past him to the kitchen. Oliver didn’t say anything. John took a deep breath, and put a kettle on the stove.

A knock on the doorframe, “Good morning dear, I brought bacon!”

John turned around and gave a tired smile, “Morning, Mrs H.”

She set a plastic bag of groceries on the table, and pulled out a carton of eggs and package of bacon. “You’re fridge is empty, and I figured you’d enjoy a good breakfast since you have company now.”

“Ah, you didn’t have to do that -”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Hudson shooed him away from the shove and pulled out a pan. “Now, where’s that boy?”

John leaned into the livingroom. “Oliver? Oliver.”

“Hm? What?” Oliver’s head jerked up and he looked around, then turned to see John. John turned away quickly while Oliver stood up, put his notebook down and began fidgeting with his sleeves.

“This is Mrs Hudson, our landlady,” introduced John. “She’s a very good friend of mine.”

“Oh, um…” Oliver stepped around the chair and offered his hand. John glanced at Mrs Hudson, who for the first time he’d ever seen, looked speechless.

She reached out and took Oliver’s hand. “You look just like him,” she said. Then she smiled wide and shook his hand. “Welcome to Baker Street, dear.” She pat his cheek and turned back to the stove, all business again. “Now, how do you like your eggs?”

“Um. It doesn’t matter. I guess.” He stood in the doorway shuffling his feet.

John reached around Mrs Hudson, pulled the kettle off the stove and took three mugs out of the cabinet.

“Do you take sugar?” asked John, looked towards the boy. Oliver’s had turned to look out the doorway, distracted again. “Oliver?”

“Hm? Oh!” He looked up. “Yes. Please. Just sugar.”

John set the mugs on the table and Mrs Hudson turned around with a plate of eggs and bacon, “Sit down, dear, you’re too thin. You’ll make sure he eats, won’t you John? If his eating habits are anything like Sherlock’s we’ll have to force the food down his throat.”

“Hopefully not,” John responded, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Oliver to sit. The boy shuffled forward and sunk into the chair. Mrs Hudson put a plate of breakfast in front of him and slid the mug of tea over.

John sat across from him and Mrs Hudson at the head of the table. Oliver didn’t speak much, pushing his food around on his plate and chewing silently. Mrs Hudson spoke about the café downstairs and the rude trash collector. John nodded and commented when expected. He drank his tea and took a bite of toast but it made him feel sick.

“Please eat, John,” Mrs Hudson urged in a quieter voice. Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver glanced from John’s plate to John. Trying to appease her, John tried again with a piece of bacon. She smiled softly at the slight effort, then continued her spiel about the trash collector who left a mess on the back sidewalk.

Oliver dazed in an out of the conversation, listening contently but occasionally seeming to drift away into his mind. John recognized the pull of his lips and quirk of his eyebrows. John closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head down and trying to push the expression from his mind. Mrs Hudson kept trying to pull the boy back into the conversation.

“Are you in school, Oliver?” asked Mrs Hudson when Oliver had drifted away again. John touched his arm to get his attention.

Oliver looked at John, then to Mrs Hudson. “Sorry?”

She smiled patiently. “Are you going to school?”

“Oh, it starts Monday I think,” He looked down at his plate and chased an egg across it with his fork.

“You must be ahead of your class, being a Holmes boy, yes?”

He nodded, his ears going red. “Year ten.” He pushed his mostly cleared plate to the side. “I’m finished.”

“I’m glad you ate,” Mrs Hudson said, standing and picking up their plates. John took them from her and put them in the sink. “Getting Sherlock to eat felt like feeding a baby. He always forgot to and complained when we made him.”

John turned on the tap and let it run over the plates, his heart fluttering a bit and his lips pulling downwards. Mrs Hudson sighed, and John turned around, leaning against the counter. She said, “I’m a bit upset he never mentioned you.”

John glanced up and caught odd expression cross Oliver’s face, but he kept his head tilted towards the table. “He never told you…?”

“Oh, dear if he had you’d’ve been spoiled rotten with the pastries I make,” she laughed.

Oliver abruptly stood up, “I have to - um,” he waved his hand towards the bathroom and disappeared down the hall.

Mrs Hudson turned to John. “He’s a bit shy, isn’t he?”

John answered, “Couldn’t imagine where he gets that from for the life of me.”

She laughed and brushed off her skirt. “I’ll invite you ‘round for dinner next week, sound good? You still aren’t eating enough.”

“Perfect, thank you,” John said. She insisted on a hug and told him to say goodbye to Oliver for her, then left the flat in a flurry. Oliver was still in the bathroom and John turned to the sink to wash the plates and silverware, then put them on the drying rack.

John frowned, Oliver hadn’t come out yet. He lifted his cane off the back of his chair and limped to the door, then knocked softly, “Are you all right?”

The door opened immediately. “Did he really not tell you about me?”

It question took John by surprise, but after a moment, he realized it shouldn’t have. John’s shoulder’s sagged a bit. “No, he didn’t. Mycroft told me about you only a few days ago.”

“Why?” Oliver’s voice rose louder than John had heard it yet, almost a shout. “Why wouldn’t he tell anyone? You’re supposed to be his best friend, right? Not a word about him having a son?”

“No, but Oliver, you must understand, Sherlock  -”

“I don’t care about Sherlock!” Oliver snapped. “All I _ever_ hear is _‘Sherlock this, Sherlock that, oh, when Sherlock was your age_ ’, well I don’t care! He obviously didn’t care enough about me, so why do I have to hear about _him_ all the time!?”

John took a step back, “I didn’t-”

“I’m _not_ Sherlock!” Oliver finished, then pushed past John and ran into his room. The door slammed shut behind him.

John sighed and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. He understood. He didn’t mean to compare Oliver to Sherlock, because Oliver is his own person. It was just… hard not to. John could justify Oliver’s anger - he’d be angry too, being constantly compared to an absent father. Okay. From now on, John’s put his mental “Sherlock box” away in his mind and gave Oliver his own space.

He started a list in his head.

“The Differences between Oliver and Sherlock Holmes.” Difference one: Oliver was naturally quieter, but quicker to anger.

* * *

They don’t speak for the rest of the night.

John sat by the window with his coffee on Saturday morning, his streak of bad nights continuing and making it extremely difficult to do anything. Oliver came out of his room a few hours before noon, his headphones over his ears. He sat down in John’s armchair again, crossing his legs beneath him on the cushion and opening the notebook he had left there.

John refused to push him into talking and if he tried, he’s sure Oliver wouldn’t be able to hear him through the headphones. So they sat in silence. John stared at a black search page on his laptop. He had nothing else to do, and didn’t know how to get back into his old way of life. What even was there before Sherlock? Suicidal tendencies, that’s what.

No, he couldn’t fix himself and “going back to before” didn’t exist. He just didn’t know how to start a new life altogether. Maybe going back to therapy would be a good first step.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Oliver slide his headphones off so they hung around his neck, then look up at John. He didn’t speak so John pretended not to notice, investing himself instead in the black search screen. Hm, what a nice shade of white.

“How did you meet Sherlock?”

Surprised by the question, John looked up, to the left of Oliver’s face, and drew his eyebrows together. “Er - through a mutual colleague, I guess. We were both looking for a flatmate.”

Oliver chewed his bottom lip and brushed his curls out of his face, looking towards the window. “Uncle Mycroft said Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

John looked back at his computer.

“Except for you,” Oliver continued.

John curled his hands on the wooden table and closed his eyes. “Sherlock had more friends than he thought.”

* * *

Monday came quickly, the weekend passing in awkward silences and forced questions (John) without answers (Oliver). John had scheduled a therapy appointment with Ella for 9:30 and Oliver had to leave for school at 8:00 to be there on time. John’s alarm clock blared to life way earlier than he had gotten used to the past few months. He didn’t get out of bed for almost half an hour. When he finally did, he made his way to the kitchen leaning heavier on his cane than he usually would. He could hear Oliver shuffling around in his room.

John groggily filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove, trying not to fall asleep standing up. Somehow he broke his streak of restless nights and managed to get six or so hours but still felt like walking death. He reached for the tea, then decided he needed something stronger and scooped instant coffee into his cup instead. It tasted like garbage but they didn’t have anything else for coffee at the moment. God, he actually woke up earlier than this for literal _years?_ How the hell?

Oliver emerged from his room in his school uniform - a navy blue blazer, dark trousers and a white button up. He put his bag on the kitchen chair and unzipped it to rummage around for something.

“Tea?” asked John.

Oliver nodded, “Green if you have it, please. Two sugars.”

John added water, sugar and a teabag to a second mug, set it on the table, then leaned back against the counter. Oliver pulled his headphones out of his bag and hung them around his neck. John sipped his coffee and asked, “Isn’t there supposed to be a tie with that?”

Oliver pulled something out of his pocket and put it on the table. Orange and yellow stripes decorated the tie. “I’m not wearing it.”

John doesn’t blame him. “Did you take your anxiety medication?”

Oliver nods.

“Do you want any breakfast?”

“I’ll get some from the café downstairs,” Oliver said, zipping up his bag. He picked up the mug and took a big gulp, apparently not minding that it had just boiled.

“Do you need money?” John asked, trying to remember where he put his wallet.

“No I have some.”

“Really, I don’t mind paying.”

Oliver mussed his hair and swung his bag around onto his back. “It’s okay.”

What else? “You remember the way? Want me to walk with you?”

Brushing out his uniform with one hand, Oliver lifted his other to show John he had the route pulled up on his phone. “I’m fine.”

John nodded. Oliver lifted the mug and practically chugged his tea. John felt like he needed to do more. Were kids already independant at thirteen? Could John be missing something vital? Why did he think he could take care of a kid again? He couldn’t do this, he was going to screw up and -

“Okay. I’m off,” Oliver set his mug on the table. He spun on his heel and walked out the door. John listened to him thud down the stairs, then the front door opened and shut.

John walked over to the window in the living room and watched Oliver walk into the café, then leave a minute later with something in his hand. Well, he’s eating. That’s good. Oliver slipped his headphones over his ears, checked his phone, then walked down the street and disappeared into the morning bustle of London.

Worry chewed away at him. It’s okay for him to worry, right? What if Oliver got lost? No, stupid - Oliver had his phone. Oliver’s thirteen, he’s fine, right? Thirteen is young… but plenty of kids walk to school everyday in London. He’ll be fine. Mycroft’s probably keeping an eye on him with all those cameras. Yeah, that’s good.

John sighed. God, he was going insane.

This is why he had therapy.

He washed his and Oliver’s mugs, then took a quick shower and got dressed. He actually had an agenda today. Weird. Also good. First he had therapy, and after he’d need to do some shopping. They lasted the weekend with the very little food in the flat (it helped that Mrs Hudson insisted on bringing lunch up to them) but they would not survive the week on takeout and canned corn, unfortunately. They were in desperate need of actual food. He made a quick list of the essentials, then caught a cab to his therapy session.

* * *

“John!” Ella greeted him with a big smile that made him cringe a bit. She shook his hand and he took his spot in the chair across from her. Maybe he should have chosen a different therapist. Nothing against Ella, just… the room, and all the things he used to talk about in it.

“It’s so good to see you again,” said Ella, picking up her notebook off her desk. She sat down in her chair. “I worried about you.”

John didn’t really know what to say to that.

That didn’t deter Ella. “What’s been going on? Why did you decide to come back?”

“Um,” John rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I realized I need to sort myself out. I’ve been moping around long enough and I’ve found a reason to stop.”

“Mhmm,” Ella nodded. “What reason would that be?”

He told her about Oliver, because he saw no reason not to. She asked some questions, but listened and wrote while he talked. John asked why he felt so worried for the boy already and Ella smiled and said it’s instinct.

“He might even distract you enough for your limp to go away again,” Ella pointed to the cane. John shrugged and she continued, “But I don’t want you to use him as a way to ignore the emotions you haven’t dealt with yet.”

“I- I won’t,” John shook his head, furrowing his brow. Would he?

“A focus is good, but don’t forget to take care of yourself,” Ella said. “Don’t make Oliver feel like a replacement. He’s his own person.”

John nodded, looking out the window. “I know. But… I can’t even look at him.”

Ella gave him a sympathetic smile and nodded. “It can be hard, especially if he resembles his father. But like I said, he is his own person. Don’t make him think you can’t stand him.”

“It’s difficult,” admit John. “Anytime I see his face, I see Sherlock.”

“Well,” started Ella, “Maybe instead of looking for the similarities between them, look for the differences.”

And John already decided to do just that.

About an hour later John didn’t really feel any different than he did before, but now he knew the first few things he could work on. He headed to the shop to buy some groceries. He had enough money in his bank account, the number hadn’t changed in months (probably Mycroft’s doing, as much as John didn’t want to acknowledge it). He just bought the basics so they would make it through the week, figuring he’d bring Oliver to the store with him on Saturday so the boy could pick what he liked.

He took a cab home with the bags and put everything away in their kitchen, then cleaned up a bit. He needed something to do. He did need a distraction for when Oliver went to school.

Should he start his blog again? Ella mentioned writing again. No, Oliver’s existence didn’t need to be broadcasted - he’d be hounded on his way to and from school by reporters.

Well, that didn’t mean John couldn’t write. In the end, writing really helped him sort through his thoughts and extraordinary life. And writing took up just enough time that he could do it when he had nothing else to do. John picked up his laptop and sat down in the armchair, propping his cane against the side table. He wouldn’t post his writing anywhere, but he would start writing about his life again to sort through all his emotions.

John opened a blank document, started typing and time flew.

He had been reading over what he’d written so far when the front door opened and slammed shut. He glanced at the time - it’s past three, so that must be Oliver. The boy’s feet pound up the stairs, and John turned to look at the doorway in time to see Oliver rush in and drop his bag. John barely got a look at him (pale, shaking hands, wide unseeing eyes, breathing hard like he had ran the whole way) before Oliver rushed into his room. It only takes a moment for John to think: panic attack.

Oliver’s door slammed shut and John stood, grabbing his cane. He limped through the kitchen and the hall, then listened to hear Oliver trying to take deep breathes, but it sounded like he was shaking too much. John rapped his knuckles against the door a few times.

“Oliver, do you need me?” He asked hesitantly.

Oliver’s breath hitched and he shouted, “No! I’m fine!”

John chewed the inside of his cheek. Panic attacks were an absolute bitch to deal with on your own, but if Oliver didn’t want his help he felt like he couldn’t intrude. He waited for a moment to see if Oliver changed his mind, and listened as the boy’s breaths seemed to even out and go quiet.

Sighing, John went into the kitchen and made tea, leaving the kettle on the stove in case Oliver wanted any and sat back in his chair.

Oliver didn’t come out of his room for over an hour, and when he did he slouched on the sofa, the notebook from a few days ago on his lap. He sniffed and tapped his pencil against the cover a few times. His headphones were around his neck, so John took that as a sign that Oliver would listen if he spoke.

“Does it happen often?”

Oliver stopped tapping his pencil, “That was the first one in a while.”

“Because of school?”

“Yes. I don’t really like school,” he swallowed thickly, his eyes on the notebook. “Um. It’s also a new school and new people. It’s… I -” he inhaled deeply, and breathed out, “I don’t know.”

John nodded, turned to look at his laptop screen again. “Next time, if - if you need anything? What should I-”

“Nothing,” interrupted Oliver. “I can deal with them on my own. I always have.”

John winced. “That’s really not -”

“It’s fine.” Oliver drew his knees up and opened his notebook, hiding his face from view. Conversation over.

John audibly sighed. He couldn’t push a subject like this, if Oliver wanted to talk about it, he would. John wondered why Oliver prefered to deal with it on his own. Mr and Mrs Holmes were too kind hearted to force him to deal with it on his own. Does that mean he hid the attacks from them? Why?

John glanced at the boy again. His feet had dropped back to the ground and he bent over the notebook, his pencil running all over the page, concentration by the set of his shoulders. Oliver still felt like a mystery yet to be solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! IMPORTANT STUFF !!! PLEASE TAKE A MINUTE TO READ THIS !!!  
>  Hello to those of you who stuck around for the second chapter! I'm Silver, and welcome to WYCQR!
> 
> First of all, I just have a few short things I'd like you to keep in mind while reading:  
> -This is a Canon Divergence story, so if you notice any details that don't quite match up with the BBC story and background, it's like that on purpose! For example, I follow the dates on John's Blog that say The Fall was in June (and in the show it said November).  
> -I did, in fact, get the name Oliver from Nature and Nurture (and a few other fics as well) because I just can't picture a child of Sherlock's with any other name.  
> -This story is un-beta'd and not Brit-picked, so if you notice any glaring issues, feel free to kindly point them out!
> 
> Regarding technical stuff:  
> -These first two chapters being the exception, I will be updating weekly. I have almost all 18 chapters written right now, so don't worry about late updates. I try to keep the chapters between 3k and 5k words long.  
> -Please please please leave a review! Even if it's just to say "good stuff" or is a constructive critique. I love hearing what you all think, and it influences the story.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	3. Rot

The next few days Oliver came home from school in a bad mood. He didn’t have another panic attack, which John figured they were both relieved about, but John could see tension radiating off him everyday. Something about school  _ angered _ Oliver, and John didn’t know what to do. Oliver obviously didn’t enjoy it, but his refusal to talk at all made things tense between them. John stopped bringing it up altogether. When Oliver wanted to talk, he would.

Later in the week when John’s alarm clock went off and he hadn’t even slept yet, he knew a bad day was ahead. He couldn’t feel anything and he thought about how pointlessness getting out of bed felt. He had nothing to do. A knock sounded on his bedroom door an hour later, as he still stared at the ceiling.

“I’m off to school,” Oliver said through the wood.

John huffed. “All right,” he called back. Oliver’s footsteps faded away and John knew he had to at least make an effort. He sort of rolled to a standing position and momentarily forgot he couldn’t walk without the extra support, his knee buckling and the phantom pain in his thigh protesting. He gasped, and grabbed the edge of his nightstand, then picked up his cane with almost numb fingers.

He sighed irritably and made tea in the kitchen, then sat on the couch with a book. After trying to read the same page for the third time, he gave up and dropped it to the floor. 

_ Everything felt so  _ boring! He could work on writing? No, he nothing had happened recently. His chest felt hollow again, just like how it had felt constantly before. What triggered this? He had been relatively fine most of the week. It was so frustrating, why couldn’t he just be  _ okay _ ? Why couldn’t everything be okay and he would feel normal instead of cold and purposeless. He had to look after Oliver now, he couldn’t just mope around like this.

Despite this, when Oliver came home John still was laying on the couch, staring at nothing. Oliver paused in the doorway, but didn’t say anything and went about his business not disturbing John.

Oliver made himself dinner hour later when John finally got up and shuffled to the fridge. He pulled out a beer and set it on the table then skimmed his eyes through the fridge, looking for anything appetizing. Finding nothing, he closed the door and picked up the can.

“You shouldn’t drink that,” Oliver said, still facing the counter. “I know it’s not my business… but that will make it worse.”

John knows this. He doesn’t need a kid to tell him. 

Oliver turned slightly to look over his shoulder. “You’ll just be sad longer.”

John tightens his hand around the can and Oliver turns back to face the sandwich he’s making. After a moment, John made up his mind, dropped the can in the bin and went up to his room for the night. He didn’t think he’ll sleep at all, but he surprised himself.

He’s fine the next morning. He gets up after his alarm goes off and takes a shower. Oliver is getting his bag together when he comes out.

“Er- sorry,” John started. “About yesterday. I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

Oliver looked up and John flicked his eyes away. Oliver said, “It didn’t bother me. I understand.”

Then he left.

That night Mrs Hudson invited them down for dinner. She made pasta, and it felt a little awkward because Oliver didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk, but that didn’t bother Mrs Hudson the least bit.

“Have you enjoyed school so far?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Not really,” he pushed his food around, until he found a black olive and ate that. John scooped the black olives off his own plate (they weren’t his favorite) and put them on Oliver’s.

“You must have some subject that you like? Chemistry?” 

Oliver made a face and shrugged, not looking up from his plate. “Chemistry is awful and complicated. I’m good at maths but I don’t like it.”

“Well, what do you like then?” She asked.

“I guess… I like astronomy,” he said, then put his elbow on the table and leaned his cheek on it.

This marked the first time Oliver had actually opened up about anything, and John listened quietly. He marvelled at how easily Mrs Hudson coaxed him into conversation, wishing it came that easy to him when they were alone. John mentally added to his list “The Differences Between Oliver and Sherlock Holmes” that Oliver preferred astronomy to chemistry.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” She clapped her hands together. “How long have you liked astronomy?”

He gave a half shrug and John tapped him with his foot, hoping he got the message;  _ don’t be rude _ . Oliver sighed and dropped his fork onto the plate. “I’ve been interested in it as long as I can remember.”

Mrs Hudson started to talk about a friend she had that studied astronomy and from there the conversation drifted away to other topics. Oliver looked a bit relieved. John listened politely and ate what he could to satisfy her, which ended up being almost the full serving before he felt too sick to continue. He helped clean up when the time came. Mrs Hudson made John promise they would come down for dinner again in a week or two, then Oliver and him went back up to their flat.

The next Monday Oliver came home from school while John was on his laptop again. He had gone to another therapy session and Ella she was glad he made an effort with eating and writing. He told her about that shitty day he had and she said that would probably happen every once in awhile. “You’re depressed,” she had reminded him, like he could have forgotten.

“I joined the astronomy club at my school,” Oliver said, rather unexpectedly.

John looked up from his laptop while Oliver hung his bag up on the hook and kicked off his shoes. “Good, that’s good. What days?”

“After school on Mondays through Wednesdays,” Oliver answered, unzipping his bag and pulling out a school book. “So I won’t be home until around five those days. And every so often we’ll meet on Saturday after sunset to stargaze for a while, if that’s all right.”

“Yeah, of course,” John smiled. This is the most he’d heard Oliver talk about school so far. He genuinely sounded interested, and John felt a bit of pride in that - Oliver finally connected with something.

Later that week John got a text from Lestrade. He stared at his phone for almost a full minute, trying to decided how that made him feel before he opened it. The text asked if John wanted to go out for a drink.

John hadn’t spoken to Lestrade since  _ before _ , and while initially he had been too blinded by rage towards the man, now he really wanted to move on. Lestrade had been doing his job (one that John didn’t think he even had anymore) and though John still felt a bit of resentment, he text him back.  _ Coffee instead? _

Lestrade must have been a bit shocked to get a reply but responded a few minutes later with a location suggestion and time. Oliver would be alone for a while, but John figured he wouldn’t mind.

“Oliver?” John leaned through the doorway to the boy’s room. Oliver sat on the floor with his back against the bed and his headphones on but he looked up. John avoided looking at his face and said, “I’m going out for a bit, will you be okay by yourself?”

He nodded. “Do you have a date?”

“Ah, no. I’m going with a friend.”

Oliver frowned. “I thought Mrs Hudson was your only friend.”

John winced. “Yeah, ta for that.”

“Sorry. I’ll be okay alone.”

“Do your homework, please,” John sighed. He left the doorway and put on his coat. Before he caught a cab he asked Mrs Hudson if she’d check up on Oliver in an hour to make sure he’d done his homework.

At the café John spotted Lestrade sitting in the corner at a small table, slouched over and he did  _ not _ look great. This was probably the most tired and depressed John had ever seen the man. His head jerked up when John slid into the chair across from him.

“John! I almost thought you would change your mind,” he said, his eyes flicking over John. He winced when he saw the cane and quickly looked away, his fingers tightening around his cup. “Nobody’s heard from you in months.”

John shrugged, “I fell down a hole of self-pity and only recently emerged.”

Lestrade gave a dark chuckle. “I hear that...”

They stayed away from the ‘darker’ topics and talked about mundane things neither of them really cared about. Sports. Lestrade was single again. The heavy winter they were supposed to get. Irrelevant news. John drank a tea, and he felt glad Lestrade so easily agreed to a coffee shop. After Oliver basically called him out for drinking, he tried not to anymore. He especially felt glad they didn’t go to a bar when Lestrade strayed the conversation into uncertain territory.

“In a month I’m going to be reviewed and might get my job back,” Lestrade broached the topic.

John nodded, “That’s - that’s good.”

Lestrade sighed, running his hand through his grey hair. “What have you been up to, John? You look thin and tired and I just, I’m sor-” he took a shuddering sigh.

“Greg, don’t,” John shook his head. “Please don’t. I don’t want to talk about this.”

Lestrade swallowed audibly and nodded. Part of John still wanted to be mad but he just… couldn’t, seeing Lestrade like this. He’s sure he didn’t look much better. “I, uh - I didn’t take you for the coffee shop type.”

“Well,” John said, running his tongue over his lip. “I would have agreed to the bar if it wasn’t for Oliver.”

“Who?” Lestrade’s brow pulled together.

“Um,” John started. “Funny story. Turns out, there’s this kid-”

“What?”

John chuckled. “Sh- Well, Sherlock, apparently, has a son.”

Lestrade gaped at him. “ _ What? _ ”

John laughed. Actually laughed. Had his own face looked like that when Mycroft told him? John wished he could take a picture and use it as blackmail.

“No - John. Stop laughing.  _ What _ do you mean? A  _ son _ ?”

“Yeah...” John chuckled. “The boy turns fourteen at the end of October. I’ve been taking care of him. He lives with me now.”

Lestrade just looked more confused as he looked down at the wooden table silently for a moment. “ _ What the hell? _ ”

Again - John laughed.

* * *

 

The week following, everything seemed to settle around them, the awkwardness that still lingered in the flat ebbing away. After therapy on Mondays, John went to the shop with a list Oliver and him would add to during the week. Ella encouraged him to try and go back to the surgery, but he felt like he couldn’t yet. He’s almost… too embarrassed. They might not even let him come back.

When Oliver had astronomy after school the flat felt lacking and John didn’t like being alone there. He instead would have tea with Mrs Hudson, which she told him she appreciates, and go for walks around the city. His leg hurts sometimes, but other times he  _ almost _ forgets about it. Then he’d see a back alley, and remember the rush of running or hear the faint pounding of shoes on the pavement, the swish of a coat or the rattle of a fence and everything would feel hollow again. Days like that made the sky feel greyer, and the puddles on the kerb look deeper. He pushed on.

Oliver seemed to naturally be rather quiet, but John tended to be as well so it worked out. Some nights they’d sit across from each other at the kitchen table and wouldn’t speak for hours. John still couldn’t look him in the eye, and he knew Oliver had noticed by now but didn’t say anything. John appreciated it, but dreaded the day it would inevitably be brought up.

One night John was writing on his laptop and Oliver had his notebook balanced on his legs, working on something vigorously - an average night for them. John had yet to see what Oliver always worked on in the notebook, but because of the way the pencil moved John knew it couldn’t be writing. His curiosity bested him and he tilted his laptop screen down and tapped on the table where Oliver could see.

He looked up and took off his headphones.

“What are you always doing in that notebook?” John asked.

Oliver looked down at his paper, bit his lip, then unfolded it and slowly slid it up onto the table. “I - er. I draw.”

“Can I look?” asked John, sliding his laptop to the side. 

Oliver nodded and tucked a leg underneath himself on the chair so he could lean onto the table. John looked down at the notebook and turned it towards himself, noticing that there were only a few unused pages left.

What Oliver had just been working on was a half finished realistic drawing of an elephant, the pencil guides all of the paper still, eraser marks around the edges and shadows only half filled in. But it looked astonishing.

“ _ You _ drew this?” The art looked professional.

“Um- yeah,” Oliver rolled his pencil on the table.

“How long did this take?”

“I started this one yesterday during school,” he said. He reached across and flipped the page to the one before. “This one only took… three hours? I think.”

Another black and white drawing, hyper realistic and of the tea kettle John always used. It sat on the stove, the flames frozen in time below it. Oliver had filled the page completely, the kettle in the center, the stove, the wallpaper behind it, the edge of the sink.

“This is incredible, Oliver,” admired John. “What else do you draw?”

“Whatever I want,” he said. “I’m practicing objects and animals now because I usually draw people.”

“May I see some?”

Oliver reached over and grabbed a large portion of the pages, flipping to near the front. A drawing of Mr Holmes, John recognized, sitting in a tall-backed arm chair staring out the window. The attention to detail it amazed him. The drawing didn’t fill the whole page, the wooden floor faded into the white of the paper before reaching the bottom and the window faded before the top. There were books on a shelf to the right, behind an end table with a lamp on it.

Oliver flipped to the next page - this one of a teacher seated at his desk at the front of an empty classroom. A whiteboard hung behind him, half erased and covered in blurry equations, and empty desks in front of him.

“I drew this from my perspective during a detention last year,” Oliver commented. He flipped the page again. An unfinished drawing of some students sitting under a tree. Only the tree, some grass and the three students had been drawn but without faces. “I had to go back to class before I could finish.”

“Where did you go to school?” John asked. He realized he didn’t actually know.

“Just a small school about half an hour from home.”

“Really? I expected you to be in line for Eton, or Harrow.”

Oliver sighed. “No, grandfather didn’t want me to, seeing how that worked out for Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifted a bit, and he shook his head.

Oliver kept flipping through the book, showing John some of the drawings and explaining what they were. There were a few of Mrs or Mr Holmes, some of random students at his old school (those were never drawn with faces) or an occasional teacher. One page completely full of drawings of hands in different positions. A drawing of a mirror over a bureau, Oliver himself looking intensely into it. John didn’t look at this one too long.

“Practice,” Oliver told him. Another page full of just facial expressions, then one of waist-down drawings of sitting positions. Another page had two full body line drawings of male and female bodies with no details. “Reference,” he explained.

There was even a drawing of Mycroft, who posed for it. He sat in an armless chair, his right ankle crossed over his left knee and his hand resting on his upright umbrella. Oliver perfectly captured the slight smirk and intense, powerful gaze.

A few were animal drawings. A cat sleeping on a garden wall, a butterfly delicately perched on a flower. Another elephant drawing followed by a half finished drawing of a dog.

Some of the more recent ones he had done were striking. A drawing of the back wall of the flat, mostly the wall paper but the skull painting to the right. One of the animal skull with headphones up on the wall.

Many of the pages only had half-finished drawings or partial ones that got scribbled out.

“Why scribble them out?” John asked.

Oliver shrugged. “They’re bad.”

“They’re not!” John insisted. “All of this rivals  _ adult _ artists, and you’re barely fourteen.”

“Grandfather tried to get me to sell some of it, but I don’t want to. It’s belongs to me,” he said. John understood that.

John flipped the page and froze on the next one, his insides twisting. This one was finished, but looked like Oliver had aggressively gone over the face diagonally with an eraser.

It was of Sherlock.

Taking up the whole page, head to toe. Sherlock’s wild hair blew in imaginary wind, his Belstaff coat blowing out majestically behind him, like he had just pivoted around, hips still facing to the left. His right hand halfway raised to touch the back of his head. The eraser had vanished most of his face, but John could make out the intensity of his eyes and thin set of his lips, like carefully calculated stone. Behind him, shadows crept towards the edges of the page. It almost looked like a picture. Is this how Oliver saw Sherlock?

“Oh, that’s - um,” Oliver quickly reached out and flipped the page over, his face turning red. “Yeah.”

John didn’t say anything about it. “These are amazing. They look so real, like photographs.”

“Thank you,” Oliver mumbled.

John smiled, closed the sketchbook, and slid it back towards him. “It’s very beautiful work, honestly.”

Oliver took the book back and ducked his head. John thought he may have glimpsed a smile.

* * *

 

At almost five at night on a Friday, John realized Oliver should have been home over an hour ago - he didn’t have club today. Did he stay for a study hall or have detention? John checked his phone but didn’t see any calls. All right. Maybe Oliver just forgot to call? How long does detention last? Were phones allowed in detention? Probably not. Would the school call him if they kept Oliver late? Probably.

Trying not to outright panic and call the police, John moved his laptop off his lap and called Oliver. It rang, rang, rang, then went to voicemail. He tried again. Same thing. He sent a text to Oliver, managed to wait a full minute - then completely fucking panicked.

He’s about to call Mycroft when the front door opened and slammed shut. He froze, then moved to the doorway and relief washed over him upon seeing Oliver trudge up the steps. Until the boy stepped into the light of the doorway.

Mud and rotting garbage covered Oliver, his jacket missing and his button up ruffled and ripped at the cuffs. His hair stuck up more than usual and he clutched his ever-present headphones in his right hand, broken into pieces. He sniffed and wiped a the back of his hand across his eyes, the mud falling away from an angry forming bruise on his cheekbone.

John stepped toward the boy and gently took his chin. “God, Oliver, what happened?” He tilted Oliver’s into the light so he could better see the bruise. He was punched. John felt anger coil in his gut. “Who did this?”

Oliver shoved John hands away and mumbled, “It’s nothing. I just want to take a shower.”

“Hang on,” John grabbed Oliver’s wrist to stop him from leaving the room. “You’re covered in rot, something obviously happened.”

Oliver tugged his arm away and snapped, “I can handle it, okay?”

“If someone is harassing you, you need to tell me! I can help,” John shouted. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I don’t want to see you hurt like this.”

“ _ Ce n'est pas grave _ !  Some boys chased me and threw me into a dumpster, all right!? Why do you even care?” Oliver shot an extremely Holmesian sneer up at John.

“I’m responsible for you!” John shouted. “What if this happens again and I can’t find you?”

“You don’t need to!” Oliver stomped through the kitchen and dropped his muddy broken headphones on the table.

“Don’t walk away while I’m talking to you,” John scolded, following.

Oliver whipped around. “Or what? You’re not in charge of me.” He stomped into the bathroom, and John slammed his hand onto the door to keep it open.

“I am, and you’ll listen to me,” John argued. 

“Ugh!  _ You’re not my dad _ !” Oliver shouted, then slammed the door.

John’s heart dropped into his stomach and he stepped back. He closed his knuckles around his cane. “Fine! If anything like this happens again, I  _ will _ call the school.” 

The shower started and John walked back into the living room. He dropped his cane to the ground, fell back into his chair, buried his face in his hands and groaned. What was he going to do with this boy? And why the  _ hell _ did it hurt so much to hear Oliver shout something like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shameless use of google translate for Oliver's French)  
> Translations:  
> "Ce n'est pas grave!" = It doesn't matter!
> 
> Anytime I have someone speak a different language in this fic, I'll leave a translation in the notes!
> 
> X
> 
> Anyways, an **important note** :
> 
> -In this AU(ish), the only people who know Sherlock faked his death are Molly, and about 30 people in the homeless network. Mycroft does **not** know and this is important.  
>  -Also, I plan on updating on Mondays every week.  
> -Sorry this chapter is shit.  
> X
> 
> PLEASE REVIEW, IT MEANS SO MUCH!!!


	4. Monocromatic

Things were back to being awkward for a little while, the weekend being the most tense and passing slowly. On Monday Oliver came home from school and walked up the steps sluggishly, which meant something was on his mind. John looked up from reading in his armchair when Oliver hung up his bag and kicked off his shoes.

He expected Oliver to continue through the kitchen and into his room, like he had the past few nights. Just as Oliver turned to do so, he swung back around and John glanced away to avoid being caught staring. He walked back into the living room and stood facing John.

“Why won’t you look me in the eye?” demanded Oliver.

John’s stomach flipped. He swallowed and looked up, staring just above Oliver’s right shoulder. Before he could answer, Oliver continued

“Because I look like him?” asked Oliver, his voice softer now. “Because - because, I can’t help that. But look at me - look, do I  _ really _ look that much like him?”

His voice bordered on desperation and John looked up, meeting his big cerulean eyes for the second time since they had met. They were same color as Sherlock’s. But the more John looked at his face, the more he realized - Oliver was  _ right _ . He didn’t look all that much like his father. Sure the features were there, but… Oliver had a smaller nose, his lips were fuller and his jaw narrow with a small chin. He had a smattering of small, pale freckles across his nose and cheeks. His cheekbones were sharp but not as high as Sherlock’s. His hair curled longer and had that red tint to it. 

Oliver’s tall and gangly frame seemed to have less to do with being Holmes and more to do with being a teenager. His pale skin wasn’t as pale as John once thought. His face definitely held more expression, with his bigger eyes and softer, almost more feminine features.

“You - you don’t,” John admit, his voice low.

Oliver nodded, “Good. I’m  _ not _ him, and you know that, right?”

John nodded and wet his lips.

“So - so,” Oliver sighed and ran his hand through his tangled hair, his eyes flicking around as he searched for words. “Please, just. Look at me and see  _ me _ . Don’t look for  _ him _ .”

“I know.” John nodded and stood up. “I know, I’m sorry Oliver. I see you.”

Oliver shut his eyes and ran his hands down his face. “Thank you, John.”

* * *

After that conversation, the tension melted away and things were getting better. John found it easier to talk to Oliver, and Oliver opened up more to John. On Saturday John brought Oliver with him to do the shopping so he could help pick out meals for the week instead of just writing it down for John to find.

Oliver still stayed relatively quiet, but John figured it was more his nature rather than the awkwardness now. Occasionally, he would surprise John and carry on a conversation his own, like during the shopping trip.

“Grandmother always made us sit together for meals and it bothered me because we always had things like steak or soup or other expensive stuff,” Oliver said quite suddenly. “Sometimes I just want to sit on the sofa and eat pizza, you know?”

John shook his head and gave Oliver a sort of smile. He opened the freezer door to his left and pulled out a frozen pizza, held it up to Oliver then dropped it in the trolley. Oliver turned to keep walking but not before John caught the beginnings of a smile.

“Let’s play a game,” John suggested. Oliver looked over his shoulder and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I ask a question and we both have to answer it. Then you ask the question. Just mundane stuff.”

Oliver surveyed him, maybe trying to see if he was joking or not, then shrugged. “Okay. You first.”

“Do you prefer fruit or vegetables?” John asked, picking up a cluster of broccoli and inspecting it.

“Fruit,” Oliver said. “Let’s get apples.”

“You can pick some out when we pass them,” John said. “I like vegetables better.”

Oliver pulled a face. “Hm… Favorite breakfast food?”

“Eggs.”

“French toast.”

They continued their game through the store, most of their questions on the topics of food or meals. Oliver’s favorite meal was breakfast, John’s was dinner, they both liked take away, Oliver prefered green grapes to red and John didn’t like them. Oliver didn’t like milk and John didn’t like coconut. Eventually the game faded away when Oliver knocked over a cardboard display of biscuits and John rushed away, chuckling.

“Hey!” Oliver shouted when he found him. “Will I get in trouble for that?”

“No,” John said. “No one was around. Did you pick it up?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled.

Their conversation faded at the checkout and they were silent the whole way home. That was probably the longest John had spent in the shop, but he didn’t mind. Oliver helped put the shopping away when they got home, but went into his room after and stayed there the rest of the night.

Things were peaceful, and for the first night in a very long time - John wasn’t kept up by nightmares.

* * *

John woke up to a text from Mycroft. Not how he usually liked to start his day, but so be it. Mycroft asked if John felt opposed him coming to see Oliver on Sunday, to give the boy his birthday present early (he would be out of the country on the actual day). Confused, John leaned from his bed to look at the calendar on his wall.

On October 31st, in John’s red handwriting it said “OLIVER’S 14TH” in a circle, less than a week away. Had October really gone by that fast? Oliver had been living with him nearly two months now, and time absolutely had  _ flown _ .

He responded to Mycroft’s message with an affirmative, then starting thinking about what he should buy the boy. John had learned a bit about Oliver’s interests but the boy stayed mostly a mystery to him. 

Mycroft came on Sunday with a heavy gift wrapped in blue paper. Mrs Hudson insisted on bringing lunch up to them, and sat at the table when Mycroft handed his gift to Oliver. It was a thick, old astronomy book - one of only a hundred printed, Mycroft told Oliver. The boy’s eyes brightened and he flipped carefully through the worn pages, looking at diagrams of the solar system and constellations of stars.

“Thank you so much, Uncle, I love it,” Oliver said, his voice soft but genuine.

Mycroft nodded.

“When is your birthday, dear?” asked Mrs Hudson. “I’ll bring you up a cake, if you’d like.”

“Oh, um, you don’t have too…”

“Nonsense.”

Oliver’s ears and cheeks flushed red. “It’s on the thirty-first.”

She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful, I’ll bring something up for you after dinner, darling.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, ducking his head a bit.

John helped Mrs Hudson wash up the plates, leaving Oliver and Mycroft to talk in the living room. He didn’t hear Oliver say much, but he strains to listen when Mycroft lowers his voice to ask if Oliver likes it here.

Oliver doesn’t speak for a moment, then John hears, “I do. John’s - John’s nice and… I think he understands me. More than - more than Grandmother or Grandfather.”

“You’re okay with staying?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Oliver’s answer is immediate this time. “I don’t want to go back to the estate. I really… really like living here.”

John feels his chest swell and he smiles down to the sink, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. Oliver liked it here, which made John glad. Especially after the argument a week ago that had left things tense between them for a while. It could be hard to read his thoughts sometimes, and when he stayed in his room John felt like maybe he wasn’t doing enough. Hearing Oliver just now… he had to be doing something right.

Mycroft left two more gifts behind from Mr and Mrs Holmes for Oliver to open on his actual birthday.

After Mrs Hudson left, Mycroft awkwardly pat Oliver’s shoulder and hustled from the flat. John let out a breath he felt like he had been holding and turned to look at Oliver who sat down on the edge of the couch.  _ Now what? _ They both seemed to think.

“So, anything in particular you’d like to do for your birthday?” asked John.

Oliver’s eyes slid away in the manner they did when he had something on his mind. “Um… I’d prefer just to stay in. I don’t really like making a big deal of out my birthday.”

“Why’s that?” John sat down at the table by the window.

Oliver leaned back on sofa, slouching and sticking his legs out. “Grandmother always threw big parties for me and invited the kids in my class. I hated it because I didn’t ever talk to any of them really and big crowds give me anxiety.”

“All right. No parties then. I’m not much of a fan of them either.”

“Oh,” blushed Oliver. “Also don’t - don’t sing. It’s awkward for everyone.”

John tilted his head and felt the corner of his mouth lift. “Of course not.”

* * *

 

He didn’t admit it to himself often, but when Oliver stayed out late because of his club, John got quite lonely. The boy naturally stayed quiet, but him just  _ existing _ alongside John seemed loud enough chase away quiet of the flat itself. John  _ hated _ being alone in the flat now.  _ Absolutely hated it _ . John would have to finally get around to going to some job interviews. Sometimes John worried he would go insane if alone for too long. Hm. That’s definitely something else to add to the list of things he should/probably won’t mention to his therapist.

On Oliver’s birthday John allowed him to stay home from school. It fell on a Thursday, and the day before Oliver had had a rough day, coming home and trapping himself in his room for hours. John wouldn’t force him to be somewhere he hated on his birthday.

So Oliver and John stayed in the flat the whole day, watching crap telly until Oliver found a chess board under the bookcase. Neither of them were very good at the game, and Oliver ending up trying to balance the pieces on his face instead, sticking his tongue out when John flicked them off. 

“Grandfather was disappointed I wasn’t a ‘worthy’ chess opponent,” Oliver said, turning all the pieces to lay on their sides in a circle around a knight. “I told him that chess is a disappointing game.”

John laughed.

They stayed indoors, and both appreciated the slow day, even without much to do. John tried to turn on a movie neither of the had seen, but it ended up being in German.

“Favorite movie?” asked Oliver, picking up their game from the grocery. John took a moment to remember it, then jumped in.

“Any of the Bond films.”

Oliver shook his head. “Never seen them.”

John smiled, “Oh - our evening plans tomorrow  _ are sorted _ .”

“My favorite is the Princess Bride.”

“Hm, I’ve never seen that,” John said. Oliver said if he had to watch the Bond films then John had to watch Princess Bride with him.

“Okay, okay,” John said. “Favorite book?”

“Um…  _ Bag of Bones _ . Stephen King,” Oliver said.

That surprised him, but then again, Oliver always surprised him. “Really? Mines…  _ In Cold Blood _ , Truman Capote.”

“Haven’t heard of it,” Oliver said, leaning back in the desk chair so it balanced on the back two legs. “Phobia?”

John pursed his lips. “...Monophobia.”

Oliver nodded, then said. “Aquaphobia. Nobody taught me how to swim, and I can’t stand large bodies of water.”

“Maybe we’ll go to the beach someday, get you over that fear.” John suggested. “Okay, how many languages do you speak - besides the French?”

“Just English and French,” Oliver said. “I learned from grandfather, he speaks it a lot back at the estate. And you?”

“A bit of Dari, but nothing else. I suppose I wish I learned while younger.”

They didn’t keep it up for long, as a loud clap of thunder startled Oliver and he looked out the window at the rain for a while, getting lost in his head. The German movie played in the background and Oliver seemed lost in thought, so John picked up his laptop and wrote for a while.

“What would you like for dinner?” John asked, when it started getting darker out. The storm seemed to have died down.

“Erm, take away is fine,” Oliver suggested.

John grabbed his phone off the side table. “Chinese? Thai?”

Oliver made a face, his nose scrunching his freckles up. “Chinese food is the  _ actually _ the worst. Are there any Italian places nearby?”

“ _ Actually _ the worst, huh?” teased John, looking up the number for the Italian restaurant. 

Oliver shrugged. John smiled and mentally added that to his list of differences between Oliver and his father.

Almost an hour later the food arrived, and they pushed the coffee table away from the couch so they could sit across from each other on the floor.

John ripped a piece off of his garlic bread, and held it up. “Catch.”

He threw it up and Oliver fell backwards onto his arms and caught it in his mouth, then grinned at John. John froze, shaken by the first time he’d actually seen a smile from the boy. Oliver smiled with his white teeth, his cerulean eyes glinting off the light. He looked so…  _ young _ with a smile like that. Then Oliver took a drink of his water, the smile gone barely after it had shone.

John found himself wondering why Oliver didn’t smile more often, with a grin like that. John restrained a smile himself and looked down at his plate. John could see Oliver being a total heartbreaker when he grew older - if he would just smile more. 

Mrs Hudson came up with the cake she promised and the three of them moved to the kitchen table for slices. She asked about school, so Oliver lied and said it was fine and John didn’t amend him. Oliver thanked her for the cake, and she shuffled back downstairs later.

Oliver sat on the couch while John pulled out the gifts from Mr and Mrs Holmes to hand to Oliver, along with his own gift. He sat down on the couch next to Oliver while the boy opened them. He picked up John’s gift last, and his hands paused when he opened it. 

A new drawing notebook with thick cream pages, pencils of various lead consistencies and a tin of charcoal pencils. 

“Wow,” Oliver gaped, opening the notebook and rubbing a page between his fingers. “Thank you, John, thank you so much.”

John smiled. “I noticed you didn’t have many pages left in your other one, and I want you to keep drawing.”

Oliver popped open the tin of charcoal pencils and and held one up to look at it. “These are great, thank you,” he looked up, “Do you mind if I use them now?”

“Go ahead,” John said. “Oh, wait. I have these for you too.”

John leaned to the side of the couch and pulled up an unwrapped package. “I meant to give it to you when I got them, but figured I’d wait for your birthday.”

Oliver took the package, turned it over and a smile spread across his face again. “Headphones!”

“Because your other pair broke.”

Oliver turned the grin at him. “This means so much to me. You have no idea.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

He took them out of the package and put them around his neck. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome.”

John cleared up the wrapping paper and headphones box, threw them in the trash and when he came back into the living room Oliver already started on a new drawing with his charcoal pencils, headphones over his ears. 

Everything was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I missed my deadline by a few hours, but I don't think many of you will notice... DX I'm developing carpal tunnel in my left wrist (I'm not even a legal adult yet I'm too young for this and very upset gah) and editing this chapter was a pain to get through, so point out any typos you see please!
> 
> ANYWAYS, my wonderful online friend Luzy did a **watercolor of Oliver**! You can find the artwork [here](http://bee-holmes.tumblr.com/post/160996773952/oliver-scott-holmes-commissioned-by), and her tumblr [here](http://bee-holmes.tumblr.com/) (go check out her other art!).
> 
> If anyone is interested, my trash tumblr is [here](http://for-the-shipping.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always, please please leave a review telling me what you think of this chapter! Two words or a paragraph, I reply to every single comment!
> 
> Also, there is quite a bit of foreshadowing in this chapter ;)


	5. Craving

“It’s the boredom that gets to me,” John told Ella. “When Oliver is off at school and I have nothing else to do.”

Ella nodded, “And you’ve been writing?”

John shrugged, “Sort of, but nothing has been happening. I do the same thing everyday, it’s driving me insane.”

His life with Oliver had become steady and quiet, things having finally found a routine between them. But with the routine came nothing interesting. John was back to doing practically the same thing everyday and he could feel himself falling back into a hole again. It sucked, but the past few weeks he had been doing everything to avoid that.

“Have you thought about returning to work?” asked Ella.

“Not really.”

“Maybe that’s something you should consider,” she suggested.

John looked out the window and tapped his lower lip with a finger. He didn’t even know if he’d be allowed back there, after leaving the way he left. “I could… I’ll call and see if they are hiring again.”

Ella smiled. “Good. This is a step in the right direction John, I’m glad you’re making the effort.”

That’s how John found himself on the phone with Sarah (he had hoped it would be anyone else) one evening, setting up an interview for his old position. He went in the next day, and Sarah sat across from him at a table, but didn’t ask all the usual questions. She didn’t mention his cane or the reasons he left, and John was grateful for that.

“I’m sorry about, you know, the way I left - or, well - how you had to fire me. I didn’t really mean to abandon my job like that,” John said, rather embarrassed.

Sarah gave him a half smile of sympathy that just made him feel worse. “You were a great physician, John, and we’d love to have you back.”

“Really?” John asked. “That easily?”

“Well,” Sarah lifted and dropped her shoulder. “We’re shorthanded right now, and could use someone with your level of experience.”

“Great,” John said, surprised at how well the “interview” went. “When do you want me to start?”

“If you’d like similar hours as before, you can start Monday,” said Sarah, looking down at the papers in front of her. “Does eight AM to four PM sound all right?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Yes, that’s perfect.”

“I look forward to working with you again,” smiled Sarah, reaching out to shake his hand.

It worked out perfectly, and John wouldn’t have to be alone for long in the flat anymore. Of course, Thursdays and Fridays Oliver would be by himself for a while after school, but John didn’t think it would bother the boy and John could ask Mrs Hudson to check on him if he felt too worried.

Time flew by, now that John had something to do during the day. The first week passed smoothly and John slept full nights (with only a few nightmares) again since work tended to tire him out. Mornings were a little chaotic since they both had to be ready and out of the flat at the same time, but it was the familiar chaos John felt used to. Familiarity was good. Safe, even. Boredom - not so much.

On a Friday night he came home, hearing muffled music coming from inside the flat. He pushed open the door and listened - it came from Oliver’s bedroom. A soothing, nostalgic, song played out loud, mainly acoustic with few lyrics. Careful not to alert Oliver of his presence, John stepped softly through the kitchen then the hall and peeked through the doorway. Oliver sat on his bed, leaning over another drawing, the music playing from his phone next to him. It sounded like an American singer, and John smiled, then let him be. He didn’t know what he expected Oliver to listen to - he sort of assumed it might be some loud teenager rubbish or classical songs, growing up at the Holmes’ estate.

Just another thing he added to his list of differences between Oliver and Sherlock. Oliver listened to a rustic kind of acoustic rather than classical.

John walked to the front door and opened it loudly then shut it, so Oliver would know he returned home. The music shut off and Oliver appeared in the kitchen doorway while John took off his shoes.

“All right?” Oliver asked, shifting from foot to foot.

“Just tired.” John picked up his book from the coffee table and sat down in his arm chair. Oliver stayed in the doorway, like he wanted to say something. “What is it?” John asked.

Oliver hesitated, looking away, then pulled an envelope out from behind his back and handed it to John. “My teacher told me to give this to my guardian.”

John frowned and took it from him, then pulled out a short letter from Oliver’s teacher. He read through it and sighed. Apparently Oliver’s marks were some of the lowest in the class from not turning his work in and not paying attention during class. The teacher said if things stayed the way they were she’d have to call in a meeting and if his marks got worse, he may have to return to his own grade level.

“Do you know what this is about?” John asked, holding up the paper.

Oliver shrugged and looked down at his socked feet, then rubbed his arms.

“Do you want to read it?” John offered.

“No…” Oliver mumbled.

John sighed, and sat forward. “Why don’t you do your schoolwork?”

Oliver half-shrugged again. “It’s boring. I don’t like doing it, I’d rather read on my own. The work is tedious, I already know the content.”

“Would you like to move up another grade?”

“No.”

“Why not? If you know the content, why sit through the classes?”

Oliver wet his lips, ran his hand through his hair and tugged at some of his curls, “I don’t - I already stick out enough. People think I’m weird.”

John understood. If he moved up another grade, he’d look even more out of place amongst the upperclassmen. But he didn’t want Oliver to constantly but upset with school either. Especially if it affected his marks. John didn’t think it was fair to Oliver, because he _knew_ how smart Oliver could be.

“All right, but you can’t keep getting marks like this,” John said. “Tell me what you’d like to do.”

Oliver looked up in shock liked no one had ever asked what _he’d_ like to do before. John realized that might entirely be a possibility.

“Um,” Oliver said, shifting from foot to foot. “I could… If the teachers gave me the content ahead of time I would get it done. The classes are paced too slow. If I got it done at my own speed, then I could finish the class early and work on other stuff.”

That was a good idea. Oliver had obviously thought about it before, and if that’s what he wanted, John would try to make it happen. He nodded, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do for you. But you have to promise me you’ll raise your marks.”

Oliver’s eyebrows raised and he nodded. “I will! I will, thank you.”

John smiled, “Do you have any homework tonight?”

A sheepish nod.

“Start by finishing that, and I’ll give your school a call in the morning,” John said. Oliver’s lips quirked up and he spun around, going to his room.

John sat back in his chair, mentally adding that to a list of things to do. If it helped Oliver enjoy school and do better, John would get him there.

* * *

 

“Hello, is this Oliver Holmes’ father?”

“Uh - no, I’m his current guardian,” John corrected. He paced across the floor of his room.

The women on the end of the line made a noise of understanding - John couldn’t be quite sure what that suggested. Then she said, “I assume you know why I’m calling - about Oliver’s marks.”

“Yes, actually,” started John. “I’ve had a talk with him about it, and I hoped we’d be able to work something out…”

John ended up having to go through four different teachers and almost got passed to a fifth when he caved and mentioned Mycroft being Oliver’s uncle. That tidbit felt awkward to slip into the conversation, but he told them Mycroft had been in charge of transferring Oliver into the school. That got him handed off to someone higher up in the chain that would actually help him out.

Then finally he got someone who managed Oliver’s schedule to listen to the idea Oliver had. John explained that he knew Oliver was smart, and the school must know too if they allowed him into a higher grade. They worked out that if Oliver raised his marks and kept them up until after the holidays, Oliver’s advisor would work with his teachers to accommodate the way Oliver learns. Relief washed over him at hearing that, and couldn’t wait to go tell Oliver.

“Thank you so much,” John said. “Oliver won’t disappoint.”

“I hope not, I’d rather like to see someone of his talents succeed,” the man responded.

John thanked him and hung up the phone, then breathed out a sigh of relief.

He descended the stairs into the living room just as a glass shattered in the kitchen.

“Shit!” Oliver shouted. “ _Dieu, ça fait mal!_ ”

John hurried to the doorway. A broken glass scattered across the floor and Oliver’s shoulders looked tense, his hands over the sink.

“Are you bleeding?” John asked, walking over to him, being careful of the glass.

Oliver looked over his shoulder, his teeth grit. He had a tight grip on his hand, dark blood oozing out from between his fingers and dripping into the sink. “I - uh, I hit it against the counter on accident and it shattered.”

John leaned his cane against the counter and held out his hands, “Let me see.”

Oliver hissed as John took his hand and uncurled it over the sink. A thin gash stretched from the base of his thumb across to his little finger. It wasn’t bleeding too much, a small pool of blood collecting in his palm and dripping off. John turned on the water and put Oliver’s hand under.

“Does it sting?” John asked. The water ran clear after a moment and he turned off the tap, watching to see if it bled more.

“ _Un peu_. Er -a little.”

“Was the cup clean?”

“It just had water in it.”

“Stay here.” John picked up his cane and found a med kit in the bathroom then set it on the kitchen counter and rustled through until he found an antibiotic. He spread it over Oliver’s palm while the boy watched silently, then wrapped some gauze over it. “Keep that on so it doesn’t get infected.”

Oliver nodded. “Thank you.”

“Just be careful,” John said. He looked down at the glass all over the floor, glad he had shoes on. Oliver didn’t. “Did you step on any?

“No, I didn’t move.”

“All right, I’ll grab your shoes and you can help me find all the pieces,” John said. He found Oliver’s shoes by the doorway and passed them to him, then got the dustpan from next to the fridge and they both began sweeping up the pieces of glass.

“I just got off the phone with your school,” John started.

“Really?” Oliver looked up, his face hopeful. He looked so much younger when his face lit up like that, and his hair was extra messy today, curls sticking up all over the place.

“Mhm, I got your advisor to talk to me,” John said. “He said if you raise your marks to a standard, after the holidays he’ll help change up your curriculum.”

Oliver grinned at him, “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Lestrade invited him out for coffee again after work on Friday. He left Oliver to his own after the boy promised to work on some of his missing assignments. John trusted Oliver to keep his word, and said to call him if he ran into any problems.

John hadn’t expected it to be so cold, and he shivered when he stepped outside. The crisp air had that winter smell to it, and John secretly hoped they wouldn’t get snow this year. He met Lestrade at the same warm little café and when Lestrade showed up, he definitely looked better than the first time. The tired eyes were gone, and he had gotten some color back, but he smelt of cigarettes. John knew better than to say anything about that.

“You look better,” he commented instead.

“Could say the same to you,” nodded Lestrade. “How’ve you been?”

“Better. I returned to work a bit ago.”

A fond smile crossed Lestrade’s face. “Good, that’s good. I got my job back too. It’s a little weird, but it works for me.”

Their conversation carried on well, talking about this and that, work and sports. It felt like nothing had changed between them, and John was glad to have a friend again. The underlying awkwardness from their first meeting still lingered, but they could carry the conversation on over that.

“So how’s that boy?” asked Lestrade. “Oliver, right?”

John nodded, sipping his coffee. “He’s - he’s good, I think. It’s hard to read him sometimes, but I think he’s happy.”

“You’ll have to introduce us at some point,” Lestrade said. “A child of Sherlock’s must be intense.”

“He’s quiet, actually,” John said. “Maybe you can meet him over the holidays. I’ve been thinking about having some people over for New Years. It’s been very quiet and I think he and I need some company for a bit.”

“If you do decided to go through with it, I’d be delighted to come,” Lestrade said. “Have you spoken to anyone else recently? Your sister? I know Molly mentioned she tried calling you months ago and you never answered.”

“Yeah…” John looked into his mug. “I should probably give a few people a call.”

Lestrade brought his mug to his lips, “It’s a slow going thing.”

“It is.”

Lestrade’s phone beeped and he looked down at it. “Ah, shit, I have to go,” he said, looking up apologetically. “Casework.”

“I don’t mind,” John said.

“Let’s do this again soon,” Lestrade pulled on his coat. “See you, John.”

He left in a rush, the bell above the door chiming as he ran out. John watched him through the window as he rushed down the street and tried to ignore the tugging in his chest. The illicit call for adventure John had been trying to suppress for _months_ climbed up the back of his throat, and he swallowed it like a rock. It settled in his stomach, cold and heavy and he left the coffee shop feeling detached.

John had nightmares that night, about the night by the pool, watching himself and Sherlock get pumped with bullets from the snipers all around him. He woke up in a cold sweat and it took him a few hours to actually get out of bed. Most of the day sucked, even though he didn’t have to work, and he still felt detached - he knew Oliver picked up on it too.

The feeling slowly ebbed away, leaving John feeling drained and tired.

Towards nightfall, after John had taken Oliver to the shops to pick of meals for the week, Oliver stepped into the living room, bouncing on the balls of his feet and fidgeting with his curls.

“Remember how I said sometimes my astronomy club would meet on Saturdays after sunset?” asked Oliver. “I sort of forgot to tell you that today is one of those days, but can I please go anyways?”

John glanced up from his laptop at the clock, it was seven PM. “Where?”

“Just in the park a few blocks from here. And only for an hour or so, because we might get snow tonight so the clouds will ruin it,” Oliver said.

John chewed the inside of his cheek. “All right. You have to wear a coat though and make sure your phone is on.”

Oliver rose onto his toes with excitement and rushed into his room. He came back out with his shoes on, coat over his arm and his phone. “Thank you, John, I promise I’ll be back around eight.”

“I want a text when you get there, okay?” he said. “Do you need anything else?”

Oliver shook his head, tapping on his phone probably to pull up a map. “I’m okay.”

He pulled his coat on and rushed from the flat in a flurry. John tapped his good leg up and down for a full minute, worrying his lip between his teeth before he caved. Oliver’s new phone had a GPS tracker on it, after he lost his last one in the dumpster he had been forced into. John specifically asked for one with the tracker, just in case. John pulled up Oliver’s phone location on his laptop and watched as the little blinking dot made it’s way through the streets to the little park, then stopped.

His phone beeped and he checked to see Oliver’s message saying he made to to the park fine. John was just worried, that’s all. He knew Oliver would be safe, but he didn’t trust… other people. Especially after what happened with the dumpster.

Anxiousness flitted around in his chest the rest of the time, and kept checking the tracker just incase, but it barely moved the whole hour.

Oliver came home a little after eight, his cheeks and nose bright from the cold but a smile graced his face and he walked in already chatting. “One of the boy’s had a really nice, expensive telescope his father bought him so we took turns on that and we could zoom in enough to see details on the moon and it was extraordinarily pretty.”

“That’s wonderful,” commented John, but Oliver’s talking went on. He kicked off his shoes, talking about one of the girls who looked through just a shooting star passed over, but Oliver saw it anyways. John loved seeing him be passionate about something. He never really seemed _interested_ in anything besides his artwork, and even then he rarely spoke about it. He somewhat wished Oliver had the same enthusiasm about school, but he understood how different the two were.

If this is how Oliver acted after doing something he loved, John figured next time he wouldn’t be as anxious about him being out on his own, as long as the boy stayed happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, please point out any errors, I did a quick proof read of this but I may have missed a lot. God I've been so out of it. I haven't even written this week, it's bad.
> 
> Translations:  
> "Dieu, ça fait mal!" - God, that hurts!  
> "Un peu." - A little.
> 
> The genres of music I imagine Oliver listening to can be found [here](https://youtu.be/m-HC326WqxQ), [here](https://youtu.be/MkCB4ATLCo0) and [here](https://youtu.be/Ehm2SUYQbQI).


	6. Holidays

After a nudge from Mrs Hudson and that mention from Lestrade, John finally got around to calling his sister. Harry had tried calling him over and over right after Sherlock’s death, but after the millionth time of him ignoring her calls and she gave up. She sounded a lot more awake and sober in the call than he had ever heard before, which made him happy. They both seemed to be dealing with their demons.

“I haven’t had a drink in months,” Harry told him. “Somedays are harder than others, but days like today when I feel energized and happy are what make it worth it.”

“Good, I’m proud of you, Harry. It’s nice to hear you like this.”

“And you, Johnny?” Harry asked. “You’ve called me outta the blue after not hearing a word from you in months. Is everything all right? You’re not about off yourself or anything?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. I’ve been back on my feet lately and realized how much of a cock I acted like for never answering your calls,” John said. “And with the holidays coming up, I thought better now than later.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said. John could hear the fondness in her voice. “What changed so suddenly?”

John glanced from the desk into the kitchen, where Oliver sat at the table, listening to music and drawing, lost in his own little world. John let a small smile lift his lips. “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you this, but Sherlock’s child is what changed.”

“Sherlock’s _child_?” Harry asked. “You never told me he had a kid.”

“I didn’t know about the boy until a few months ago,” John said. He explained about Mycroft and Oliver a bit, and Harry chuckled about it, mentioning what a nightmare it must be for him.

“At times,” John admit. “But he’s rather reserved.”

“Can he do the deductive thing Sherlock could do?” Harry asked. She’d never met Sherlock face to face, and it made John sad to think about. That his sister would never know the man that had such an impact on his life. She knew enough about him from the blogs, newspapers, and reports, though.

“I don’t think he can,” John said. “At least not at the intensity that either the Holmes brothers can, but he’s very smart. I think he pretends to be less smart than he really is, actually.”

Harry laughed, and John raised an eyebrow though she couldn’t see. “He sounds like you, Johnny.”

John rolled his eyes. “All right, _Harriet_ ,” he used that name she hated. “I hoped you’d like to come visit on New Year’s Eve. I’m going to have a few people over, not many, and it’d be nice to see you.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” Harry said. “I’d have to find a place to stay the night, but that shouldn’t be too hard in London.”

Their conversation wrapped up quickly, and John ended the call, elated to be able to see his sister again, it’d been over a year since their last face to face meeting and Harry had been sporting a bad hangover at the time. After he hung up, he sent a text to Lestrade, then after a moment of consideration, to Mycroft to see if they’d like to visit on New Year’s Eve. He knew Mrs Hudson would be delighted, and the only other person he’d like to invite was Molly.

The situation with Molly was similar to Harry. Molly had tried calling him in the weeks preceding Sherlock’s death, but he never answered. John glanced at the clock, and figuring she’d be out of work by now, swallowed his anxiety and called her.

Molly answered sounding dead tired, but delighted to hear from him. She had been working extra hours at Bart’s and John realized with a sinking feeling that she probably took Sherlock’s death just as bad as John had. He felt terrible now, for never calling her or checking in, and told her so.

“Don’t worry about me, John,” Molly said. “I spent a few weeks over in Harlow with my sister’s family.”

“Are you all right, though?” John asked, his voice soft.

Molly sighed on the other end of the line. “I am. Really, don’t worry too much. I’ve been back in London for months now, and working is helping keep my mind off things.”

John thought not to mention that working with corpses on the daily probably didn’t help as much as she’d like it to. Did Molly live with anyone? He couldn’t even recall, which made him feel worse - God, he’d been a rotten friend to her. “You’re not alone are you?”

“No,” Molly said. “Not right now anyways. My little niece is with me for the hols; my sister and her husband are on a cruise until January.”

John made a noise of approval. “Listen, I’m having a few people over for New Year’s Eve, and I’d be overjoyed if you’d come.”

“I don’t know, John…”

“Come on, Molly, it’s just going to be a few of us. Like Christmas last year,” he swallowed thickly, trying not to dwell on _those_ memories too much.

“What about my niece? I can’t leave her alone.”

“You can bring her along,”  John encouraged. “How old is she?”

Molly seemed to consider this. “She’s fourteen.”

 _Oh boy,_ John thought sarcastically, glancing back at Oliver. He didn’t really like other teenagers.

“I’ll have to think about it, John,” Molly said. John would have to warm her about Oliver, but now wasn’t the time. He’d tell her if she decided to come.

“Well, take your time,” John said. “Call me when you decide.”

“I will.”

John chewed the inside of his cheek. “Take care of yourself, hm?”

“You too,” she said.

“Bye, then.”

“Bye.”

John ended the call and sighed, running a hand down his face. Christmas rushed towards them, and John still didn’t know what he should do for with Oliver. A call back from Mrs Holmes should be coming to see if they wanted Oliver at the estate for Christmas or not, and he still had to figure out what to buy the boy.

John sighed again and leaned his cheek in his hand, watching Oliver draw from across the room. Since when did John start to care so much again?

* * *

 

“Oliver?” John asked through the doorway to the boy’s room. With only a few days left to Christmas, he wouldn’t be surprised if Oliver felt homesick.

He looked up and took off his headphones.

“I got that call back from your grandmother, she said they’re out of the country the next few weeks,” John explained. “Would you like me to see about you going with your uncle for Christmas?”

Something flashed across Oliver’s face, but he looked neutral before John could figure out what. “Do you not want me here?”

John paused, not expecting that. Wouldn’t Oliver rather be with family? “Do you - Would you rather stay here? I figured you’d want to be with family.”

Oliver’s eyes shot down to the duvet he sat on, and flicked across it while he thought. “Um, if- if it’s all right I could stay here,” he looked back up. “I’m pretty sure Uncle is busy during Christmas.”

John raised his eyebrows. “If you want to, that’s fine with me.”

Oliver nodded in earnest, yet again surprising John.

* * *

 

Then, rather suddenly, it was Christmas Eve.

The flat didn’t have space for a tree, but John and Oliver cleared off the desk enough to put a small decorative one on it under the animal skull, and it glowed with tiny lights. Mrs Hudson came upstairs with them and John lit the fire. The inches of snow outside gave the flat a bit of a chill and they welcomed the warmth of the fire.

John put Christmas music on the radio and the three of them had fun putting up decorations and cooking the whole day. The flat smelt of the wood smoke, roasting meat, potatoes and later on pies and pastries. Most of the food they made they were saving for New Years when they’d have more company.

Oliver stood on the couch, helping Mrs Hudson string fairy lights along the ceiling. Mrs Hudson swayed to the music, talking to Oliver about this and that. Oliver nodded along politely and stepped up onto the back of the couch to reach higher.

“Careful,” John warned, bringing out the three mugs of hot chocolate he made, then setting them on the coffee table.

“Don’t worry,” Oliver said, then immediately slid off the back and landed on his rear on the sofa. Mrs Hudson snorted a laugh and John shook his head. Oliver looked up with a grin, and honest to God laughed for the first time John had ever heard. He sounded so much younger when he laughed, and John wished he would do it all the time. It rang out like a child’s, the expression of joy spreading to Mrs Hudson and John until all of them were laughing along.

Mrs Hudson then offered him a hand, “Are you all right, Ollie?”

Oliver nodded, his face a bit red, and stood up.

Their evening filled with warmth, all of them in good moods. They enjoyed dinner together in the kitchen, and sat in the living room after, content to be in each other’s company in front of the fire with snow gently tapping the windows outside.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon, and Mrs Hudson yawned, then said goodnight. She’d be off somewhere else for all of tomorrow, so she wished them a happy Christmas and John gave her a gift early (tickets for a cruise in a few weeks), then said goodnight.

Oliver tucked his legs beneath him on the couch and sipped at his third cup of hot chocolate. John sat contently in his armchair.

“Is Uncle Mycroft coming over for New Year’s?” asked Oliver.

“He hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I assume he will be,” John said. “At least for a little while.”

Oliver nodded, looking thoughtful. Their comfortable silence continued, only the low crackle of the fire and soft winds outside speaking to them until they headed off to bed.

John didn’t know what to expect in the morning, but wasn’t very surprised to find Oliver already awake and making tea when he stumbled down the stairs into the sitting room. He gratefully accepted the mug Oliver offered him and sunk into his armchair. The winds whipping around outside had kept him up for the better part of the night, but looking outside now the world seemed still - frozen with the ice that hung from the window.

A few days before, gifts had come for Oliver from the Holmes family and John received somethings from his sister and mother as well.

From Mr and Mrs Holmes Oliver got a thin wooden case with expensive paints in it, and from Mycroft he got a vinyl turntable. John got a watch from Harry and enough money for a vacation from his mother. Maybe that’s something Oliver and him could do when school ends.

“I have something for you,” Oliver said. He got up from his spot on the couch and rushed through the kitchen to his room. He came back a moment later with thin rectangular canvas, about a foot tall. He sat back down cross-legged facing John on the couch and held out the canvas face down.

John accepted it, and after a moment’s hesitation, flipped it over.

A beautiful charcoal drawing filled the canvas, of the two arm chairs sitting in front of the unlit fireplace. The attention to detail made it look like a black and white photograph, the crinkles in the leather of Sherlock’s chair, and the blanket hanging off the back of John looked like it might actually be a swaying piece of fabric rather than a drawing.

“This is incredible,” John admired. “You used the charcoal I bought you?”

Oliver nodded, playing with the hem of his tee shirt and looking embarrassed.

“Thank you so much,” John said. “I’ll have to find a way to frame it.”

John set the drawing on the coffee table so it wouldn’t get damaged and reached under the couch to pull out his gift for Oliver. He hefted up the long package and held it out to Oliver, who took it with wide eyes.

“Go on,” encouraged John. He couldn’t wait to see the reaction.

Oliver’s hands slid over the paper before ripping it off and pushing it too the floor. A simple, unmarked cardboard package stared back at him. He glanced at John, then back down and let his hands flit over it to the edges. He worked his fingers under the edge and lifted the cardboard open, then froze, his mouth open and eyes huge.

John smiled. “What do you think?”

Oliver lowered his hands and gently lifted the stunning black telescope from it’s packaging. He glanced between John and the telescope a few times, speechless, before finally stuttering out, “Th- thank you, thank you so much! God, this is gorgeous! Can - will you help me set it up? Right now? I want to use it as soon as it gets dark. Please? Wow, this is wonderful.”

John chuckled, “I can help set it up. Come on.”

“Really? Right now?” Oliver asked, watching with excitement as John stood up and stretched his arms above his head. John nodded.

Oliver jumped up, tucking the telescope under his arm with care and lifting the box that still contained the mount for it. “Let’s go!”

John followed, leaning heavily on his cane while Oliver rushed past into his bedroom. They then spent the better part of an hour setting up the mount so the telescope would look out Oliver’s bedroom window, making sure the extra lens it came with worked and that everything situated correctly.

When they were done, they cooked cinnamon buns in the kitchen together, making more of a mess than probably necessary, then attempted chess again.

“Favorite color?” Oliver asked.

After a moment, John said, “Green.”

“Purple.”

“Hmm…” John tapped his chin. “Season?”

“Summer.”

“Spring.”

The day continued like that. John called Harry and his mom to wish them a happy Christmas, and Oliver spent almost twenty minutes on the phone with his grandparents assuring them he didn’t mind that they weren’t around for Christmas.

It passed quickly, then Oliver practically bounced on his feet as he stared out the window waiting for the sun to disappear. The soft orange glow accentuated the reddish tint to his hair and bounced off his blue eyes, making them look like the the glowing sky itself. The the sun vanished below the horizon and Oliver bolted to his room to use his telescope.

Only a moment later, Oliver came out and dragged John into the room because he wanted to tell him about what all the different parts on the telescope did and what the phase of the moon meant in relation to the stars. John felt content to just listen to him be passionate about something.

The following day he got a call from Molly saying she’d be over for New Year’s Eve with her niece. John walked on eggshells around the topic of Oliver, before she had the same reaction as Lestrade but with a lot more silence followed by the quiet question, “Does he look like him?”

John took a breath. “At first glance. But not really.”

“All right,” breathed Molly.

* * *

 

The day of New Year’s Eve, John, Mrs Hudson and Oliver worked on reheating all the food in the oven and cooking more biscuits and bread. The flat smelt wonderful, and they lit the fire again to keep it warm.

Harry arrived first, an hour after noon. Harry and him had always looked similar, both a bit on the shorter side with rounder features. Harry’s hair was darker and shoulder length, and she took after their mother with her full lips and curved wasit that made other girls go crazy. John greeted her and accepted a little longer than necessary hug before she pulled away and looked him up and down.

“God, John, you lost weight,” she said. She didn’t say anything about his cane.

“Did I?” Probably from his terrible eating habits a few months ago.

She pat his shoulder, “You don’t look sick, though. Now show me up to the flat I’ve heard about and have yet to see.”

John chuckled and led her up the stairs to 221B. Mrs Hudson greeted Harry with a big smile, saying she’d wanted to meet the other Watson for months now. Harry laughed, and said she would’ve been around sooner if John had just invited her. John rolled his eyes as that.

“Oliver, this is my sister Harriet,”John introduced. Oliver stood up from the desk and shook her hand.

“Oh, you’re adorable,” Harry said, then she winked. “It’s just Harry, by the way.”

Oliver’s face turned beat red and he nodded.

Mycroft showed up not long after, and moments after introducing him to Harry, John realized they weren’t going to get along. Lestrade came after, and he greeted John unexpectedly with a hug and awkwardly shook Mycroft’s hand. When John introduced him to Oliver he stared at him long enough for Oliver to start squirming.

Molly came late, the roads were bad, but John hugged her and told her she looked wonderful in the simple red sweater she wore. Her niece Emily looked a little less than excited to be there, but stayed mostly quiet and stuck to Molly’s side. Molly avoided looking at Oliver, like John had in the beginning, but politely shook his hand before looking away and asking Lestrade about work. Oliver truly didn’t seem to mind. Everything ran nicely, if John ignored the slight awkward underlying tension.

It faded away after Mrs Hudson helped John get out the food and drinks. Lestrade’s loud laugh filled the air next to Mycroft’s balanced tone, Harry’s snark and Molly’s giggle. John checked on Oliver a few times, but he didn’t seem very interested in joining the conversation, opting for looking out the window or talking quietly to Mrs Hudson.

Later on when the fire roared and everyone found easier conversation, John pulled Molly away from one of Mrs Hudson’s tales to try and talk to her. He wanted to know if she was as okay as she said.

“Really, Molly, how have you been?” John asked.

Molly hesitated, her eyes flicking to Emily, who stood next to her, looking around absently. John realized she probably didn’t want her niece listening in on such a sensitive topic.

“Why don’t you go talk to Oliver,” Molly encouraged, nudging Emily in his direction. The boy looked content, reclined on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. He observed Mycroft and Lestrade’s animated discussion about some kind of political thing John didn’t care about.

Emily sighed and walked over to him. Oliver frowned. She stuck her hand out, looking him up and down, “Emily.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, but leaned forward and gave her hand a firm shake, “Oliver.” He looked her over in the same way she did him. Lighter hair than Molly’s, held back off her face in a ponytail, unfortunately the same height as himself and her skin a few shades tanner (probably from her father, as Molly looked relatively fair skinned, so her sister should be too). She reminded Oliver of all the girls in his year who had high pitched laughs, chewed too much gum and texted under the table during class.

He decided he didn’t like her.

“How old are you anyways?” she asked him and he sighed, not intending on holding up a conversation. “You’re small. You look like a skeleton.”

“I’m fourteen,” he said. He heard the snap of gum come from her mouth, and almost smirked.

“Really?” Emily’s eyebrows lifted. “You look like you’re twelve. At least I _look_ my age.”

Oliver drew his eyebrows together and stood up. He didn’t have any height on her, but he sneered in the way he had seen Mycroft do when he wanted someone to feel small. “What? Forty-two?”

She scoffed. “As if. I’m the same age as you, but at least I make it look good.”

She popped her hip out to the side and put her hand on it.

“Ew. _Filles stupides._ ” Oliver rolled his eyes and brushed by her. He walked over to John’s chair and sat down in it, picking up the book John had left on the table. He opened it to the middle and pretended to read, intending on ignoring her for the rest of the night. She followed him and leaned against the mantle at his side. He didn’t look up.

Her gum snapped.

Oliver sighed.

“So why are you so skinny?” She asked. “You anorexic or somethin’?”

“Why do you wear so much lipstick?” Oliver asked. “You insecure or _somethin’_?”

Emily made an irritated noise in the back of her throat and stood up. “Whatever. You’re boring.”

“ _Whatever, you’re boring,_ ” Oliver imitated her in a high pitched voice.

“Ugh,” she stormed away from him and he smirked. Problem solved.

John had moved into the kitchen to talk with Mycroft after Molly assured him she was doing fine (just a few rough days here and there). He glanced through the doorway to check on Oliver and Emily, and saw Oliver had moved to sit in John’s chair and Emily now sat on the couch, typing on her phone.

“My parents informed me that when they get back into the country, they’d like Oliver and you to visit,” Mycroft said.

“That would be lovely,” John said. “I’m sure Oliver would enjoy it. I can image he gets homesick.”

Mycroft looked through the doorway towards the boy. “Perhaps.”

After midnight, when it officially became 2012, Mycroft left and offered to drive Lestrade home, as there weren’t many cabs out in the crazy weather. He offered to Molly, but she said they were taking the tube and the station wasn’t too far. Harry waved him off before he could ask. They bid everyone a goodnight and left into the angry storm.

“I should get back to the hotel,” Harry said, standing up and cracking her back.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” asked John. “The wind is pretty bad.”

Harry waved her hand. “I’ll be fine, it’s barely a five minute walk from here. Besides, I like the snow.”

“All right, just text me when you’re there.” John wrapped an arm around his sister for a hug and led her to the door after she said goodbye to the others.

He leaned out the door and watched her brave wind, her scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. Then he leaned back in and pulled the door shut. Molly and Emily were behind him, pulling on their coats and gloves. Oliver and Mrs Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs to see them off.

“Thank you for having us over, John,” Molly said. “I had fun.”

“Of course,” John said. “Call me if you ever need anything, all right?”

Molly nodded, and gave him a hug. She said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, then turned to Oliver and held out her hand.

“It was very nice to meet you Oliver,” she said, giving him a fond smile.

Oliver’s face turned beat red, and he took her hand, nodding. “Y-you too- er, nice to meet you. Too.”

Molly laughed, had Emily thanked John and then left the flat, another gust of wind and snow blowing in. John sighed with relief now that everyone left and turned back to face Oliver and Mrs Hudson. Oliver’s eyes stayed glued to the door, his face still red.

“What is it?” John asked.

Oliver turned his head a bit to look at John, then gave him a boyish grin. “Molly’s pretty.”

Mrs Hudson burst out laughing, and John joined in - the irony was almost painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oliver speaks French once in this chapter, to Emily, saying "stupid girls")
> 
> I literally _forgot_ to update this week. Can you believe that? Whoops. Wow finals are taking a lot out of me... I didn't have time to edit this thoroughly, so if there are any blatant errors PLEASE point them out, and I will fix them.
> 
> On another note, this is one of my favorite chapters so far.


	7. Fear

A call from Oliver’s school came during John’s shift at work, a week after New Year’s Eve. Worry gripped him at first, and he answered quickly, stepping out of the exam room.

“Is this Oliver Holmes’ father?”

“His - This is his guardian, yes,” John answered.

“Ah, John Watson correct? We spoke on the phone about a month ago regarding Oliver’s academics?” The male voice sounded familiar, and John recognized him as Oliver’s academic advisor.

“Yes, is something wrong?” John asked.

“No, no, of course not,” he said. “Oliver, you and I came to an agreement before the holidays that if he raised his marks by the new year, I would help change his curriculum around to better suit his academic needs.”

“Oh, yes! How is that going?”

“Well, he raised his marks to the standard, so I’ve got a new schedule sorted for him. He’ll be able to do his classwork ahead of the others at his own pace if he keeps marks _above_ the standard and goes to the required classes,” explained the advisor.

“That’s wonderful, have you explained this to him?”

The advisor made a noise of affirmation. “He said it will be easy to keep his marks up now. He looked rather excited, and I’m glad to see him with an expression other than bored,” he chuckled.

John smiled.

“All I need is your approval on this change, and Oliver can start his new schedule on Monday.”

“Do you need me to come in, or does a verbal confirmation do?”

“I can send a copy of his new schedule home with him,” he said. “You’ll just need to sign the paper and send it back with him at the earliest convenience.”

“I’ll do that,” John said. “Thank you for working with us, I really hope Oliver proves this was a good idea.”

“There’s no doubt he will.”

John thanked him again and let out a breath of relief before limping back into the exam room.

Oliver came home after astronomy club that night and handed John the paper he needed to sign. John read it over while Oliver stood in front of him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. John signed it and handed it back to Oliver.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at it with bright eyes.

“I’m very proud of you, Oliver,” John said. Oliver looked up with his mouth dropped open. “You pushed yourself to do what you needed to better your education. For that, I’m proud of you and I’m sure your grandparents will be too.”

A small smile tugged at the edges of Oliver’s mouth and he looked back down at the paper to hide it.

* * *

It was only a matter of time until Oliver had another bad panic attack.

It happened while they were both at home, thankfully. Saturday morning John woke to rain pounding against his window and his thigh twinging with pain. While relieved it had stopped snowing, it meant the roads would be icy and the sidewalks covered in half-melted muddy snow. At least he didn’t have to work until Monday. He pulled on a jumper - the flat felt a bit chilly - and stumbled down the stairs into the sitting room.

He froze when he saw Oliver, squatting in the middle of the floor, his arms wrapped around his legs and his forehead pressed onto his knees. He struggled for breath and with each forced exhale, John could see his entire body shaking. Panic attack. John hadn’t seen Oliver actually have one before - he usually locked himself in his room, but he knew what they looked like from experience.

“Oliver?” John asked, his voice soft. Oliver’s entire back tensed. He looked so small curled up like that. John inched forward and lowered himself to his knees, balancing with one hand still on his cane. He lifted his hand and hesitated before resting it on Oliver’s back.

Oliver immediately jerked away and snapped, “ _Laisse-moi tranquille_!”

John took his hand away, he didn’t know what Oliver said, but he obviously didn’t want to be comforted. “Okay, okay.”

Oliver lifted his hands and thread them through his hair, pulling while a choked sobs shook his entire body. He buried his face farther into his legs. It broke John’s heart to watch, but he knew Oliver wanted to deal with it alone. So he stood up, stepped away and waited by the couch. He would stay in case Oliver needed him, but gave him the space he wanted.

It took close to ten minutes for Oliver’s breathing to even out and the fingers still digging into his skull loosened, then dropped to his side. He heaved a sigh and lifted his head, dragging a hand down his face.

“Do you know what triggered it?” John asked, waiting patiently for him to compose himself.

Oliver stayed crouched on the floor, his ears turning red. He turned away and mumbled something, his arms wrapped around his legs again.

“Sorry?”

Oliver turned and stood up, brushing the rumples out of his shirt. “I -um, I stopped taking my pills.”

John frowned, “When? Why, Oliver? Those are supposed to help.”

“They weren’t, though,” Oliver confessed, his voice desperate. “It makes it hard to sleep, and I can’t concentrate after I take them. Sometimes they give me bad headaches, too.”

John rolled his lip between his teeth. “What do you want to do?”

Oliver glanced away and lifted a hand to twist a finger into his curls. “I want to stop taking them. Even if it makes the anxiety bad for a while.”

“You’ll have withdrawal symptoms,” John warned. “Even after that, you’ll still have anxiety.”

“I know but I don’t want to always depend on medication to function.”

John understood that. He sighed, then said, “I can have someone put me in contact with your doctor. On one condition.”

Oliver perked up.

“You have to let me help you when this happens,” John said. He gestured to Oliver, “I’m not going to force you to take meds, but you have to tell me when you have an attack, and if they only get increasingly worse, we might have to find another solution than quitting altogether.”

Oliver pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

After that, January passed in a blur. Oliver finished rest of his prescription by taking a pill every other day for a week, then every two days until they were gone to lessen the withdrawal effects. He became a bit more irritable, but kept busy with school and his club. John focused on work and writing when he needed it.

Mycroft had called to invite them to the Holmes’ estate a few weeks from then in February and John had accepted. Oliver looked eager to see his grandparents again.

Oliver and John stayed busy, but spent evenings at the flat and made sure to have dinner together every night, as they sometimes missed each other in the morning. They went to the grocery together on Saturdays, and after John occasionally met with Lestrade, and once with Harry on a Sunday for breakfast.

During a day in early February Oliver left his drawing notebook out on the kitchen table while he went the bathroom. John tilted his laptop screen down to look at it, and saw, with a bit of pride, a finished drawing of John himself sat at the desk in the other room with a cup of tea in front of him, his head turned to look outside at the falling snow. Smiling, John returned to writing and didn’t mention it when Oliver returned to pick up the book and go into his room.

Oliver had a minor panic attack a few days into February, and he let John sit on the couch with him during it, but other than that, things were going well at Baker Street.

* * *

 Until a Thursday when Oliver didn’t come home. John tried not to panic, only half an hour had gone by since he should have been home. Maybe he was held up by a teacher? John tried calling him twice, but it went to voicemail both times. Now he panicked.

John grabbed his laptop and flipped it open, his hands flitting across the keyboard as he pulled up the tracker on Oliver’s phone as fast as possible. He watched as the blinking dot that signaled Oliver trailed across the screen fast in the opposite direction of Baker street, meaning he was running. Why would he be running? John remembered Oliver telling him about the boys who had chased him down and thrown in him in a dumpster.

He slammed his computer shut and yanked on his coat while pulling up the tracking map on his phone. John ran from the flat, his feet sliding across a patch of ice, then ran in Oliver’s direction, his eyes glued to the screen. Oliver was close to the Thames, and John stepped off the curb to hail a cab, knowing he couldn’t catch up on foot.

A cab pulled up, and John gave him the name of the street Oliver was running down and told the cab driver it was an emergency. He tried calling Oliver again while in the cab, tapping his fingers anxiously against his leg. The cab pulled over and he threw some cash into the front seat before ducking out, trying to find Oliver on the GPS - there, a street over.

Again, he ran. Oliver had stopped moving right by the river, only a block away now. John swung around the corner and slid on the ice again but caught himself and kept running. The street lights that lined the embankment wall lit up the devoid area, and John knew Oliver should be _right there_. He stopped and gasped to catch his breath, then turned to look up the path.

There. Oliver had his back against the railing, and three taller boys were harassing him, pulling at his shirt, shoving him around and tugging at his hair. Oliver was trying to push them away, shielding his face, but they were laughing and kept him cornered.

“Oliver!” John shouted.

The three boys looked up, searching the darkness before spotting John. One took off in panic as John ran towards them. One boy jabbed Oliver in the chest, saying something John couldn’t make out before the two lifted Oliver up by the shirt, and shoved him up onto the railing. John’s heart stopped when Oliver teetered backwards, his hands reaching out into the air, searching for something to grab, everything moving in slow motion. Then he fell, and the boys took off running and laughing, but John didn’t even care because in a moment that stretched to infinity, he remembered -

_Oliver couldn’t swim._

He wasn’t going to get there fast enough and John’s head spun with half-formed thoughts as he ran. He got to the rail and looked over, his blood rushing in his ears. “Oliver!”

Splashing and coughing from the darkness below let John know Oliver was still somewhat above the water. “Stop thrashing, you’ll drown yourself!” John shouted, a moment too late. The thrashing stopped. Oliver was under.

John started counting and he raced to the right, towards the access stairs that down led to a concrete slab and the tiny bank of dirt next to the river. He lept over the chain gate and rushed down the stairs, darting his eyes around, trying to find where he last saw Oliver in the darkness. It was too dark, he’d never find him, and his heart thudding in his ears made it hard to hear any movement. He strained to look past the surface, but still couldn’t see a thing.

Oliver didn’t have time for John to just stand there, he’d already been under way too long. John dove into the icy water, gasping at the shock, and swam towards where he thought Oliver might be. He ducked under, the water too dark for him to open his eyes and search, so he reached around blindly, hoping to find _anything_.

Something brushed his fingertips, he jerked his arm and grabbed onto it - cloth, Oliver’s school shirt. John hauled him up, his grip knuckle-whitening on the clothing until he broke surface, gasping for air and pulling Oliver’s limp body above the surface. Adrenaline was keeping his tired body going while he held Oliver across the chest and dragged him to the small shore, then pushed him up onto it.

John panted as he crawled onto his hands and knees and rolled the boy onto his back. Oliver was completely limp and pale, his arms flopping to the ground and his head bobbing to the side. His dark curls were flat against his forehead and stuck to his cheeks, instead of wild and full. John held his hand over Oliver’s mouth - not breathing. He put his finger under Oliver’s chin to check his pulse. Nothing.

“No no no,” John took a breath - he couldn’t panic. CPR - he’s done it plenty before, he could save Oliver, he could do it if he didn’t panic. John laced his fingers and pressed the heel of his palm against Oliver’s sternum. He forced his racing thoughts to the back of his mind and went through the motions. One, two, three four… to thirty. Check for a pulse. Nothing.

Moonlight glinted off Oliver’s black hair, framing his bluish, slack face - and he looked like he was dead, almost exactly like - No. John could save him. He tilted Oliver’s head back to open his airway and breathed for him, watching as his chest rose and fell twice.

Again.

Heel of his palm to Oliver’s chest. One, two, three, four… until thirty. Breathe. Check for a pulse. Still nothing.

John became more desperate with each unsuccessful try. He might have been crying but it might just be the water running from his hair. He didn’t care, all that was important was Oliver. Saving Oliver.

“Come on,” he begged, pumping his hands onto Oliver’s chest again. “Please, Oliver, please. Just breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe, dammit! I can’t lose you too, please!”

Compressions. Breathe. Check. Repeat.

Then Oliver coughed, his eyebrows scrunching. John yanked his hands away from Oliver’s chest and quickly rolled him onto his side. “Oh thank God. Oh God, Oliver,” John gasped. Oliver coughed and gagged, water spraying out of his mouth until he vomit, groaning, tears running down his face. It was ugly but it was beautiful, because he was _alive_.

Oliver inhaled deeply, bit of water still rattling around in his lungs, then curled in on himself, shivering and sobbing.

“Are you all right?” John grabbed Oliver’s shoulders and hauled up him so he was sitting. “ _Are you all right_?”

Oliver hugged his arms to himself, shaking violently, his blue eyes wide and pale skin a sick blue. John couldn’t even describe the relief that washed over him. He put his wrist against Oliver’s forehead, then the back of his palm to the boy’s cheek. He was ice cold, but alive. That’s what mattered.

John pulled Oliver to his chest in a hug. He held the back of Oliver’s head and felt Oliver’s fingers grip his coat. John shut his eyes when he felt the boy shudder a sob into his shoulder, thin fingers digging into his back. He held Oliver and let him cry, gently threading his fingers through the boy’s wet hair and rocking forward slightly moving his leg under him so he was sitting with Oliver between his legs.

“Shh,” John hushed. He didn’t want to let go of him, but he needed to make sure Oliver didn’t have other injuries. “I need to know how you feel. What hurts, can you breath okay?”

Oliver’s fingers loosened slightly on his coat, while his sobs slowly turned into hiccuping breaths. He pulled his face away from John’s shoulder and sniffed, bringing his wet sleeve up to rub across his nose. John brushed Oliver’s hair out of his face and lifted his chin up.

“Can you breathe all right?” John asked again.

Oliver’s eyes were wide and red from crying. He sniffed again and nodded, then leaned his forehead back onto John’s shoulder. His voice cracked when he mumbled, “I wanna go home.”

John shut his eyes in relief. He sighed a breath he’d been holding for eternity and asked, “Can you stand?”

After a moment, Oliver nodded. John raised to his knees, pulling Oliver up with him until they were both standing. Oliver wobbled, placing his hand against the embankment, the other digging into John’s arm.

“I’m lightheaded,” he whispered.

“We should go to the hospital,” John said, guiding Oliver’s unsteady feet to the stairs.

Oliver paused and took a shaky breath, putting his hand to his forehead. Then whispered, “Can we please just go home?”

John hesitated then nodded. “Okay. Okay we’ll go home.”

He helped Oliver up onto the walkway and sat the boy down on a bench while John called a cab. While they waited, John shifted from foot to foot, glancing to Oliver then back at the street. Oliver’s eyes were blinking sluggishly and he still shook violently. John couldn’t help the mantra in his head, _this is your fault, this is your fault, this is your fault._

“Wh-where’s your c-cane?” Oliver’s shaking voice broke the train of unforgiving thoughts.

John looked down, only now realizing he hadn’t grabbed it on his rush out of the flat. He sighed, not surprised that another Holmes cured his psychosomatic limp with a wild endeavour. He just shook his head and Oliver went back to staring at the ground.

The cab showed up and John opened the door, hustling Oliver in.

“Oi! You’re soaked!” The cab driver protested.

John glared at him. “I’m pay extra, just get us there fast.”

The driver huffed and drove anyways, John could hear Oliver’s teeth chattering. He couldn’t imagine how cold Oliver felt, John himself was shivering and he had more layers on. John looked out the window to see a dusting of snow start falling from the sky.

At the flat John told Oliver to get in the shower and take his time. Oliver nodded, kicking off his dripping shoes. He started unbuttoning his shirt as he head towards the bathroom.

“Drop your clothes outside that door and I’ll ask Mrs Hudson if we can use her wash,” John called after him. Oliver nodded, then shut the bathroom door behind him.

John shuffled up to his room and changed into dry clothes, then picked up a towel and rubbed it through his hair. He went back down into the living room and passed through the kitchen to gather up Oliver’s clothes. There were bloodstains on his white button up and John sighed and closed his eyes. _This is my fault._

He put it all in a basket, and left it in the living room. He’d bring it to Mrs Hudson in the morning - he didn’t feel like answering her inevitable questions.

It was almost twenty minutes later, when Oliver had dressed in warmer clothing and John had started the fire that they sat on the floor with big mugs of tea. Oliver had his cup on the floor in front of him, his knees drawn up to his chest and chin on top of them. The boy stared intensely into the fire, his face blank, the flames flickering off his eyes and making them look brown.

“All right?” John asked, his voice low.

Oliver sighed through his nose and tilted his head with his eyes closed. Then he stood abruptly and paced away, his arms crossed over his chest. He paused, facing the back wall of the flat and John waited while Oliver ran his fingers through his curly hair, then hung his head and covered his face with his hands. He heaved a half-gasp, half sob and John shuffled over to him. Oliver’s breath came out in short gasps and his arm shot out to the side, searching for something to grab onto as he fell.

He found John’s hand, and dug his nails into John’s palm while he choked out a sob and hid his face in his knees. John didn’t wince at the pain while he kneeled on the floor next to the boy and squeezed his shoulder.

“Oliver. Oliver, you need to try and control your breathing or you’ll pass out.”

“ _Je - je ne peux pas -_ ,” the boy swallowed thickly, looking up. His eyes huge eyes looked glazed and he lifted a hand to grip tightly at his hair. “ _Ça fait mal -_ ”

“Shh, don’t talk,” John put his hand on Oliver’s back. The position was awkward, with Oliver crouched on the floor and John knelt next to him, one hand on Oliver’s back and the other letting Oliver dig his nails into.

“ _Je ne peux pas respirer -_ ” Oliver gasped. “ _Je suis - quoi s-si je meurs? Mes côtes -_ ”

“Oliver, shh,” John tried. “I can’t understand you. You need to focus.”

He took the hand Oliver was holding and pressed Oliver’s hand to own chest. He took a slow, deep breath in, then let it out. John did that a few times until Oliver began to mimic him and the shaking slowed.

“ _Mes mains -_ ” Oliver took a breath. “M-my hands are numb,” he murmured, taking his hand away from John’s chest to curl and uncurl it.

John kept rubbing soothing circles on Oliver’s back. “It’s because you were were hyperventilating, and all the oxygen was coming and going before it could circulate.”

“That was horrible.” He said, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Have they ever been that bad before?”

“Maybe once or twice… I don’t know,” he said. He was fiddling with his hair, then his sleeves, and his hands were still shaking a little.

“Here,” John stood and walked over to the bookshelf, shuffled some things around until he found what he was looking for. Then he walked back to Oliver, sat down and handed him the object.

“A rubik’s cube?” Oliver asked, turning it over in his hands.

John nodded. “During my time in Afghanistan, I knew someone who developed a panic disorder. Their way of coping was to focus their mind and hands on something. I figure this might work for you. You’ll start to think about solving the puzzle rather than what’s causing you distress.”

Oliver nodded, inspecting the cube and letting out a deep, shuddering breath. He turned it over in his hands while saying, “I hate having attacks like this. I don’t even know where I get it from.”

John shrugged and shifted so he was cross legged. “I don’t know. It’s not always inherited. Something else could have caused it when you were young, or it could just be a part of your genetics.”

“Did you get them? After you were shot?”

John wasn’t the least bit surprised Oliver knew about that. Someone must have told him, or he had figured it out on his own. “I did, but not this bad. It was mostly nightmares, and the limp.”

Oliver sighed, resting his chin on his knee again and turning the cube over in his hands. “I’ve never told anyone, but I’m always afraid I’m going to die. I can’t breathe when it happens and sometimes my feet and hands get numb, and my heart beats too fast.”

John nodded, letting him talk.

“It’s like… when I was sinking through the water before you pulled me out. I struggled at first but then the pressure on my chest made it hard to even fight it. That’s what the panic attacks feel like,” Oliver said. “Like I’m sinking into darkness, but I can see the top of the water and I’m trying to swim to it as hard as I can, but no matter what it’s... just where I can’t quite reach.”

John’s dreams that night twisted through his mind like spirals of shadows. He ran from a bullet and into a busy street full of cars, then stepped in a puddle and found himself sinking miles below water. Something warm pulled him out, then he was staring up at the roof of Bart’s, the sun nearly blinding him until a shadow jumped and plummet towards the ground.

He ran towards the body on the pavement, but everything jolted and he was too far away and his feet wouldn’t move. The pavement turned to tar and he desperately dragged forward as it slowly crept up to his thighs, then waist. John called to the limp body on the pavement, but the tar still crept up his body. Then the form on the pavement moved, and John was there, leaning over the black coat and dark curly hair. His tears fell onto the sidewalk, but they were red and he flipped to body over to look at his face, but it was Oliver’s face that stared lifelessly back at him.

“ _You killed me_ ,” the mouth moved, but it wasn’t Oliver’s voice.

John woke with a shout, his body covered in sweat and his heart pounding feverishly.

He threw off his covers and stumbled out of his room, down the stairs and crept through the dark sitting room, then kitchen. John gently pushed on Oliver’s already open door and looked in. The boy was sound asleep in his bed, the covers gently rising and falling with his breath.

John sighed with relief, then went back up to his room, prepared for another sleepless night.

Mycroft should expect a call in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my top favorite chapters for this fic, because I love love love writing angst. I had drowning scene planned before I even started writing the story, and I'm so glad it's written and you guys can read it.
> 
> PLEASE leave a review and tell me what you thought about everything that happened in this chapter. There's quiet a bit of development for John and Oliver here.


	8. Visit

John called Mycroft first thing on Friday morning. He told him about the boys harassing Oliver and that it happened more than once and this time Oliver could could have died if John was a moment later. Mycroft’s voice adepts a sort of “I’ll kill someone and make it look like a suicide” tone and says he’ll deal with it.

“Don’t do anything drastic,” John said. “They are just kids.”

“Who are almost adults, and almost murdered someone,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Fair.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “My parents are back in the country and are extending an invitation to Oliver and you to come and visit. The sooner the better, they said.”

“All right, it will be good to get out of the city for a bit. Especially for Oliver I think,” John said. “Take his mind off everything. Is this weekend too soon?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said. “I can have a car ready to pick you up in the morning.”

John confirmed it and said goodbye just as Oliver’s door opened. John leaned through the living room doorway to see the boy stumble out of his room, eyes lidded and skin pale. Oliver paused in the hallway and put his hand on the wall, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Oliver?”

“Hm?” he mumbled.

“You can stay home from school today if you’d like,” he offered. “I don’t know how I feel about you being around those boys after last night.”

Oliver looked up, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

John nodded. “If you promise to tell me if you have another panic attack.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and your grandparents invited us to spend the weekend at their house.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “You said yes?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, John,” Oliver said, before yawning again. John chuckled and told him to go back to bed. John called out of work, not wanting to leave Oliver home alone all day due to his own paranoia.

Oliver stayed in his room most of the day, which was fine. John checked on him a few times and each time he was sat in front of his closed window where snow lightly fell outside, headphones on and drawing book balanced on his legs. It was serene and John, not being able to help himself, lifted his phone and snapped a picture of him, intending on showing his grandparents to embarrass him.

* * *

Mycroft picked them up around nine in the morning on Saturday. The ride to the estate was long and quite but not really awkward. Oliver spent the time staring out the window and absently twisting his rubik’s cube. John leaned his elbow on the door and read one of his books until they got there. John had met Violet and Sigar Holmes a small handful of times, and had been to the estate once, and though it was barely a ten minute visit he already knew the house was massive and filled with expensive furniture. Sherlock had once said something about their being two libraries. He wondered if during that ten minute visit, had Oliver been in the mansion somewhere?

Violet and Sigar were outside waiting to greet them, and after Violet thoroughly embarrassed Mycroft with her doting and held Oliver in a tight hug for a while, she pulled John into a hug, saying she was glad to see him and it’d been too long. Sigar gave him a firm handshake, and told him their visit was all Violet had talked out leading up to it.

John followed everyone inside and Oliver disappeared up one of the staircases while John listened to Violet talk about their trip to France and Sigar brought tea into the parlor they sat down in. Mycroft sat down on a sofa to the side, pretending to listen when either of his parents looked up, but looking back down at a book he had picked up when they weren’t.

“How’s London, John?” asked Violet. “Did Oliver adjust well? Is he enjoying school?”

John shifted in his seat, feeling awkward. “Ah, I actually have something rather serious I need to tell you all about.”

Violet frowned and looked at Sigar. “Is everything all right?”

“Well - mostly,” John said. He told them about Oliver doing better academically, but he had run into some trouble with a few boys in his grade. He took a breath, worried about their reactions to what happened the night before, then told them about Oliver almost drowning. He left out the gritty parts, the CPR and the following panic attacks (Mycroft already knew about it and he advise John to leave out those bits).

Violet looked horrified and Sigar leaned forward, “Has it been dealt with?”

“I’m working on it,” Mycroft said from the side of the room, not looking up from his book.

Violet put her hand over her heart. “God, I can’t believe he went through that. How is he? Must’ve had awful panic attacks from that.”

“He’s - okay,” John said. “I don’t think he wants to dwell on it.”

The conversation shifted just before Oliver came trotting back into the room. The boy’s grandparents smiled at him, but didn’t bring up the bullying and they all talked for a while, before Violet decided to let John find the room he’d be staying in.

“Ollie, why don’t you show John around the house?” suggested Violet. “Show him to one of the guest rooms.”

Oliver nodded and led John towards the massive stairways while John mouthed _“one of?”_

“How many rooms are in this house?” asked John as they scaled the stairs.

Oliver shrugged. “Hmm, there’s… four bedrooms, the master, two guest rooms and one the used to be used as like a servant’s quarters? But that was never used and there’s just storage in there. There’s two libraries, the kitchen, dining hall, drawing room, three sitting rooms, and two studies. A lot of bathrooms. I’m probably forgetting something too.”

“Did you use all of those rooms?” asked John. Oliver led him down a hallway with beautiful artwork on the walls.

“No, but when I was little grandmother hosted a lot of parties so the house was always busy,” Oliver said, pushing open one of the doors. “You can stay in this room.”

John stepped into the large guestroom, which had complete furniture in soothing tans and greens with an ensuite bathroom. John dropped his bag onto the bed and Oliver walked across the room to open the drapes and windows.

“Where’s your room?” John asked.

Oliver walked from the room and led John down the hall to a door that had shapes crudely carved into the bottom of it, like from a child with a dull knife. Oliver pushed the door open and John saw the room was just as large at the guest room, but this one had light blue walls and dark paneling. Many of Oliver’s things were still in the room, and John smiled a bit at what felt like the leftovers of a bright childhood. Oliver walked into the room and started shuffling around, looking for something, and John followed him in.

A moblie of the solar system hung over the cluttered desk, paper stacks and books and pencils all over it. The bedspread was a dark lavender and neatly made. The wardrobe built into the wall hung open, and a mirror shone from inside the mostly barren area. Near the window a few pictures were hung up and John stepped forward to look closer. Oliver as a tiny baby, his dark hair just starting to curl and his eyes too big. One of Violet holding Oliver as a toddler in a garden - the baby reaching out towards a purple flower. An older Oliver, around ten or eleven, hanging from a tree by his knees, a huge grin on his face.

John almost laughed aloud at one of a stricken-looking Mycroft holding toddler Oliver out at arm's length, while Oliver was mid-laugh, covered in mud and leaves. By far the most interesting, John gently lifted off the wall to inspect. It had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Oliver, a few years younger than he was now, sat across an empty table from Sherlock, who was younger and looked much more tired than John at ever seen him. They were staring intently at each other with passive, somewhat curious faces, as if they had never really seen each other before. Sherlock’s hair was longer in the photo and he wasn’t as impeccably dressed as usual. Oliver’s hair was a few shades lighter than now, and his head tilted slightly to the side.

“When was this taken?” John asked, turning to Oliver.

Oliver looked up from his bookshelf, and John turned the photo to him. “Er, that was… six years ago? I think it was my eighth birthday,” Oliver took the photo to look at it. “It was the first time actually realized who Sherlock was.”

“What do you mean?”

Oliver pinned the photo back to his wall with a sigh. “I saw him a lot when I was really young, like before I realized there was a difference between grandparents and parents. But he wasn’t around when I grew older. So grandmother made him show up for my eighth birthday, and that’s sort of when I realized he was my father. I think it was the first time he realized, y’know, that I was _his_ too.”

John watched Olive’s face go through a few complicated emotions before he turned away. John turned from the photos too, and looked at the opposite wall, which was covered in drawings. Some were obviously done by a much younger Oliver, in crayon and on colorful paper, but they matured and John recognized the realistic style Oliver drew with now.

Oliver was done with the room, holding a couple books under his arm, so John followed him out and door the hall. Oliver pointed out the master bedroom, one of the sitting rooms and the second library - “the first is downstairs and massive” - then opened the door to another bedroom.

“We shouldn’t go in here but this was Uncle’s childhood room,” Oliver said.

John has a very intense urge to root around and find something worth blackmail, but the room was rather cleaned, with a tidy bookshelf, a map on one of the walls and a small globe on the desk. They moved onto the next room, which Oliver had to open with a bit more force.

“This door always jams,” he said. “It’s Sherlock’s old room.”

Sherlock’s room was the opposite of Mycroft’s. Some of the walls had random paint splatters on it near the floor, probably done when he was a child. The floorboards were scratched up, like the furniture had been regularly moved. There was a huge scorch mark that hit the ceiling on the wall above the desk, heavily cluttered in beakers and chemistry equipment. Papers were _everywhere_ along with books and pens, and a matching globe in the corner of the room. A shelf lined one of the walls, cover in jars that looked like they had dead bugs in them, and a few clusters of dried flowers hung from the top of the windowsill.

Unlike Mycroft’s and Oliver’s rooms, which had been cleaned up a bit, Sherlock’s screamed that someone had been in the middle of their life and had gotten up and left without planning on it. John didn’t know a lot about Sherlock’s childhood or what he had done before becoming a detective, but his gut told him that it wasn’t anything good that drove Sherlock from the middle of his life.

Oliver showed him some of the other rooms, then the downstairs library - which indeed was massive, there wasn’t a bit of wall in sight with the floor to ceiling shelves. Then they put on their coats and took a walk around the grounds. On one of the back porches had an old fashioned telescope set up, bronze in color and probably not very accurate. The mostly dead grass was covered in a layer of snow and frost, and the wind blew around them, but the estate was truly beautiful. A massive garden would grow out behind the house in the spring, and John found himself wishing he could see it in full bloom.

“I played in the garden a lot when I was little,” Oliver said. “I brought in bugs all the time and grandmother would have a fit.”

John chuckled at that, imagining little Oliver chasing his poor grandmother with a beetle or worm. The image was heartwarming.

They head back inside, passing Mycroft who was talking quite aggressively into his phone. Oliver found his grandmother in the pantry, digging around for something and John stepped into the kitchen where Sigar leaned over something cooking in a pot.

“Can I help with anything?” asked John.

Sigar waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. How’s everything fairing in London?”

“Uh, everything’s well, other than the few problems with Oliver at school,” John said.

“And you?” asked Sigar, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. “How are you doing?”

John hesitated. “Fine, I guess. Better than I had been.”

Oliver stepped out of the pantry carrying a bundle of carrots and some peppers with Violet and their conversation faded.

 

“Tell us about school, Ollie,” Violet encouraged during dinner.

Oliver thought for a moment, pushing a cooked carrot around on his plate. “The school has an astronomy club I joined. Every few Saturdays we meet at the park and stargaze, the club leader has a really nice telescope because his dad works for the UK Space Agency. Oh - but John bought me a telescope for Christmas, so now I can work on astronomy at home with more accuracy, which is awesome, and -”

He became more excited with each word, sounding more awake and more passionate. Violet listened patently, with a fond smile as Oliver told her about the astronomy club, his drawings, and his new school schedule. Sigar encouraged him to talk about his classes, even the ones he hated, but Oliver stayed in a good mood, excited to tell his grandparents about everything that had been going on in the past few months.

“Have you made any friends?” Violet eventually asked, a bit gently.

Oliver hesitated again, looking down at his plate. “Not really.”

Violet reached across the table and took his hand. “That’s all right, sweetheart. Just be happy with yourself.”

Oliver nodded.

“I’m delighted you're enjoying London,” she changed the subject, letting go of his hand and picking up her drink. She looked at Sigar, “I haven’t heard him talk this much since he was little.”

Sigar agreed and Oliver’s cheeks turned pink.

“He used to babble on endlessly,” she told John. “Bringing in all sorts of bugs and leaves to show me.”

John smiled, “I can imagine.”

Violet continued on, pulling the until now quite Mycroft into the conversation with Sigar. John glanced at Oliver, whose face was still tinged red, but his mouth was quirked a bit where he stared down at his plate.

After dinner, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and John helped Violet with washing the dishes in the kitchen. Oliver dragged Sigar outside to use the old telescope John saw earlier. He didn’t think it worked, but he watched through the window while Sigar peeked through it and Oliver pointed up into the sky, rocking on his heels and talking animatedly. John felt a bit of pride in his chest, seeing the boy open up like that.

Violet dropped another plate into the sink and stood next to him drying the dishes. “John, I can’t thank you enough for taking care of Ollie.”

John shrugged. “I really don’t mind. It’s nice having the company.”

“He changed so much the past few years and was so quiet and reserved. I don’t know what happened and we were so worried. That’s why we thought he needed a change of scenery,” she sighed and tilted her head, looking out the window. “It’s nice he’s opening up. He finally looks happy again.”

John looked out at him again too. Sigar was saying something, causing Oliver to giggle a little and look up at the night sky.

“Truly, John,” Violet said. “I’m grateful to you. I think he really trusts you, and that’s a big deal for Oliver.”

* * *

 A knock at the door wakes John in the middle of the night.

He rubbed his face and sat up, asking, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open and Oliver stood in the doorway, eyes wide. The moonlight that streamed through John’s room lit up Oliver’s skin, making him even more pale, and the dark curls framing his face blend into the shadows behind him. He was taking shaking breaths, and his grip on the door handle was tight.

“ _Je ne peux pas_ -” He squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth.

John threw off his blankets off, shuffled over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Oliver opened his eyes and looked up, mouth downturned and eyebrows raised, “I - m - nightmare. I can’t -”

“It’s all right, shhh,” John said. He led Oliver towards the window and yanked it open. A gust of cool air blew in, making him shiver, but Oliver’s face relaxed a bit, his hair blowing off his forehead. John put his hand on Oliver’s back and pulled him towards the window.

“Take a deep breath,” John said, voice soft. “Tell me the names of the stars.”

Oliver looked at him, then took and breath and gripped the windowsill, leaning forwards, eyes up. He lifted a hand and pointed upwards, “Iota, Nashira, Zeta, Theta, Psi…”

He went on, his hand moving a bit to each star he pointed to. John watched his face grow relaxed, his grip on the windowsill loosen and his breathing calm. John put together enough to know he had a nightmare that led to a minor panic attack, but it blew him away that Oliver sought him out rather than his grandparents.

John folded his arms and leaned on the windowsill, and listened to Oliver name as many stars as he could.

* * *

Oliver looked tired during breakfast, but still gave his grandmother a soft smile and answered his grandfather’s questions about London.

Mycroft pulled John away after breakfast to talk to him, while Oliver was helping in the kitchen.

“I found an alternative school for Oliver,” Mycroft said. “It’s a little farther away, but the teachers are top of the line professionals, and the students come from respectable families. I can guarantee he won’t have problems with the students there.”

John nodded. “Right, good. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“He can start in two weeks, if he decides to go,” Mycroft said.

Oliver walked out of the kitchen then, calling for Mycroft to help Violet in the kitchen.

John spent the rest of the day talking with Violet and Sigar, or listening to Oliver.

Mycroft’s driver brought them home after lunch, and the car ride was quiet. Oliver had his headphones over his ears and he fidget with his rubik’s cube but John could see the slight tilt of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

* * *

A week later, John still hadn’t the chance to talk to Oliver about changing schools. Oliver had been busy with schoolwork and his club, and John had to take extra shifts at the surgery after one of the other doctors fell ill. He was always exhausted when he got home late at night, and Oliver usually fled the house too quick to a get a conversation in in the mornings.

Monday, a week after their visit to the Holmes’ estate, John had the day off and Oliver came home directly after school instead of going to his club. John heard the door slam and looked at his watch with a frown. Oliver stomped up the stairs and appeared in the doorway, twisting his rubik’s cube erratically with a frown on his face. He ignored John and went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Bad day, then. John gave him some time to cool down and started making dinner. When he did call Oliver out of his room, the boy seemed to have calmed down a bit, and sat at the table with John, pushing his food around on his plate.

“All right?” John asked.

Oliver shrugged.

“Listen, um, I’ve talked with Mycroft and he’s found a school he’ll transfer you too,” John started. “It’s a bit of a longer walk, but we can arrange a car or something. Mycroft has all the papers together and you can start soon.”

Oliver had stopped chasing his food across the plate and listened in silence before looking up with his brow drawn together. “Why?”

“Because of everything that’s been going on at your school, we think it’d be safer if you moved to a different one,” explained John.

“What?” Oliver shook his head, looking upset, “Why didn’t you ask me first?”

John frowned. “Oliver, you come home upset most days, and I don’t like seeing you that way.”

Oliver stood up, his chair scraping the floor. “ _Ce n'est pas votre décision! Pourquoi feriez-vous quelque chose comme ça?_ ”

“Oliver-”

“ _Non! Écoute moi! C'est ma vie!_ ” He continued. “ _Vous_ -”

John cut him off. “English, Oliver!”

The boy’s face turned red, but he didn’t let it stop his rage. “This isn’t your decision!”

John stood too and leaned his hands on the table. “We’re doing what’s best for _you_ . Do you not realize you could have died the other night? You practically did! If I had been _seconds_ later -”

“And I could die a million ways tomorrow!” snapped Oliver.

“Why are you so upset about this?” John argued. “This new school would be safer and you wouldn’t have to worry about those boys!”

“It wasn’t your decision to make!” Oliver shouted, his face twisted with anger.

John scoffed. “It’s my decision when it comes to keeping you safe! If you’d-”

“You are _not_ my parent.” Oliver snarled at him. John leaned back as if struck, and Oliver swung around and ran from the flat, the front door rattling when he slammed it behind him.

John shut his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, trying to calm the swirling tide of emotions that stormed his chest. A moment later there was a soft knock on the kitchen doorway, and John opened his eyes to seeing Mrs Hudson standing there.

“If everything all right, dear? I heard quite a lot of shouting,” she said. “Was that Ollie that just left? Is he all right?”

John left out a huff of breath and nodded, his lips in a thin line. He started clearing up their half finished dinner. “We’re okay Mrs H, just had a bit of a row.”

“Are you going to go after him? It’s a bit nippy out.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just going to give him a moment to cool down.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

She head back downstairs and John dropped the plates into the sink before sighing and putting his face in his hands. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand why Oliver was so upset, didn’t he see that John was trying to _help_?

John took another moment to compose himself, then took out his phone and opened the GPS tracker and watched as Oliver made his way towards the park. The little dot on his screen stayed at the park, and when John felt sure Oliver didn’t intend on leaving, he pulled on his jacket, grabbed Oliver’s - which the foolish boy had left behind - and left the flat.

A light dusting of snow fell from the sky, and he could almost make out the long strides Oliver made in the snow. A gust of wind hit him and he pulled up his collar a bit, then headed for the park. His leg twinged in pain while the snow fell heavier. Only few cars were out and the sun had set minutes ago, the streetlamps lighting up the sidewalk.

The park looked empty when he arrived, and he double checked his phone to make sure he was in the right area. Oliver should be right there somewhere. John began walking closer to where it showed Oliver should be, while looking around. He stopped in front of a bench and his heart dropped into his stomach. Oliver phone sat abandoned on the bench. He picked it up with shaking fingers and tapped the screen. It lit up with an unsent message typed into the box.

_STOP FOLLOWING ME._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that cliffhanger won't keep you up at night ;)
> 
>  
> 
> So I guess I like... graduated high school last week. I've been told that's pretty cool.
> 
> **PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW!** I love hearing what you guys think about the chapters and it actually benefits the story a lot!


	9. Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!!! IMPORTANT !!!**
> 
>  
> 
> I'm doing a DOUBLE UPDATE this week, meaning I'm posting chapters 9 and 10!
> 
> Today is chapter 9, and in two days (on Thursday) I will post chapter 10, so make sure you don't miss it!

John’s shaking fingers found Mycroft’s contact in his phone, and he hit call while turning and searching for any signs of Oliver being near. Each ring that Mycroft didn’t pick up felt like a countdown to his speeding heart. Mycroft finally answered and John’s mouth moved before his brain could, trying to tell Mycroft exactly what happened and where he was.

“John, John! Slow down.”

John took a quick breath, then said, “We had an argument and Oliver ran away and left his phone in the park. I haven’t a clue where he went.”

“Where are you now?” Mycroft asked. John could hear him shuffling around papers and moving.

“In the park a few blocks from Baker Street. Last time he had his phone on him was probably ten minutes ago,” John said, his heart still pounding. He can’t believe this kind of thing happened again. What must Mycroft think of him? He was so unfit to be raising Oliver.

“I assure you I’ll find him. Go back to Baker Street,” Mycroft said.

“Shouldn’t I help look?”

“John, must I remind you who has the eyes in the sky, so to speak?” Mycroft said.

John sighed. “All right. Okay. Fine. Please call me as soon as you find him.”

“Certainly.”

The phone clicked and John shut his eyes, lowering the phone from his face. He looked around the park once more, then numbly made his way back to Baker Street, walking through what felt like a thick fog. He went through the motions of taking off his coat and didn’t even think as he opened the cabinet under the sink where he had put all the alcohol he hadn’t opened. This was his fault, _again_. This kind of thing wouldn’t keep happening if he could be a better guardian.

* * *

 He didn’t keep track of how much he drank, but he knew it was too much. At some point John passed out on the couch, having nightmare after nightmare.

One of the dreams started on the embankment, where Oliver fell, but the railing was missing. John looked down at the black water, then at Oliver, standing in front of him. Oliver smiled and shoved John in the chest, pushing him off the wall. John fell in slow motion, reaching up, and just as he hit the ice water, Oliver vanished in a burst of black ravens.

John shot awake hours later with a pulsing headache. He checked his phone, saw the time nearing ten in the morning. He felt awful, like he had swallowed a swamp tried to sweat it out. Before he got in the shower he called Mycroft, antsy for information. Oliver obviously hadn’t been brought home last night, but maybe Mycroft had him anyways.

Mycroft picked up on the second ring and spared the formalities. “We don’t have him yet.”

“You _don’t have him yet?_ How do you not have him?” John knew first hand the impossibility of avoiding Mycroft Holmes, how could a fourteen year old do it?

Mycroft sighed, “He’s rather good at avoiding CCTV and populated areas. We had eyes on him about half an hour ago, but lost him again.”

John leaned his elbow on his knee and rubbed his face. Then rather dejectedly, asked, “Tell me when you have him, yeah?”

“Of course.”

The call ended and John dropped the phone onto the couch, his head pulsing in pain. He needed a shower and a strong coffee.

It wasn’t until after sunset, a full day of doing nothing but guilty drinking (as much as he knew he shouldn’t and tried not to) he got a text from Mycroft, simply stating “ _I have him, we are headed your way_ ”. John felt relief roll off him in waves and he stood from the couch and partially stumbled into the kitchen, using a swipe of his hand to push the beer cans on the table into the trash. He bent over the sink, splashing water on his face to try and bring himself back to life. He wasn’t drunk, but he was on his way there and Mycroft would no doubt immediately know, but he might as well make the effort to appear responsible.

A loud knock on the door sounded and John hustled down the stairs, then pulled the door open. Mycroft stood with a rather neutral face, his hand on Oliver’s shoulder - John had a flashing memory of the first time they met. Oliver’s hair was frizzy and sticking up and he had his head tilted down in embarrassment, his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“ _God,_ Oliver,” breathed John. He reached out and yanked Oliver forward, crushing him into a hug. Oliver gasped, his body stiff, before relaxing and slowly hugging John back, burying his face in John’s chest.

 

Oliver expected John to yell, and he gasped when instead John pulled him into a hug. He felt terrible, he knew the trouble he had caused but he accepted the hug, and buried his face in the warmth of John’s jumper. John must hate him now, he wouldn’t want Oliver around if he caused problems like this. Mycroft had stayed silent in the car, and Oliver knew he was in for it by the look on his Uncle’s face.

“I was so scared,” John whispered. Oliver felt his heart thud - John worried for him? He pulled away and met John’s eyes. The man looked awful but genuine.

“You’re not mad?”

“No,” John said, his voice raising with emotion. His eyes flicked to Oliver’s hair and he reached up to pull a strand of grass out of it. “God, I was so scared you were hurt, or that I’d never see you again.” John’s grip on his arms tighten and the man met his eyes again. “You can’t do that. Ever. Please, don’t ever do that again, I - I thought -”

Emotions Oliver hadn’t yet seen on John’s face passed through his eyes, and John sighed, pulling Oliver into another hug. He continued talking, much quieter, “I thought you were dead. You can’t do that to me.”

Oliver felt his eyes widen.

 

“You smell of alcohol,” Oliver said, after a moment.

John laughed, feeling the tension in his shoulders disappear. He let go of Oliver, who was somewhat shivering, and nodded to Mycroft. He lead the both up to the flat, his hand on Oliver’s back, as if subconsciously he was afraid Oliver would disappear if he let go.

Mycroft sat in the desk chair with his phone and Oliver sat on the couch. John brought the three of them hot tea and Oliver’s shivering went down after drinking some of it. He dropped Oliver’s phone, which the boy left in the park, onto the coffee table and sat down next to him on the couch.

Oliver looked embarrassed again upon seeing his phone.

“I’d like to point out the tracking device on your phone is for your safety,” Mycroft said. “And if you choose to abandon it, there are other, more uncomfortable ways, for us to know where you are when you run off.”

Oliver fidgeted with his hands, his lips in a thin line. “I - I won’t,” he swallowed. “I’m not going to do it again.”

John set his mug on the coffee table. “Can you tell me why you got so upset last night? It was about Mycroft and I wanting to transfer you to a different school, yeah?”

“Um - yes,” Oliver’s eyes flicked up to his Uncle, who had put his phone down and was listening. Oliver switched to fidgeting with his sleeves. John stood up and grabbed Oliver’s rubik’s cube from the kitchen counter and dropped it in the boy’s hands. Oliver switched to twisting the cube before talking.

“I don’t - want to be the new kid again,” he started. “The beginning of this year was hard enough, being new, and I already stand out. My accent’s posh, and I’m younger than everyone in my year. I finally _enjoy_ school, though, since I got my classes changed and I like the astronomy club. I don’t want to go to a new school and have to readjust again.”

John hadn’t even thought of this. He sighed and caught Mycroft’s eye, but couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. Oliver finally liked school, which felt like a feat in itself, and they didn’t even think about how switching Oliver’s school would effect him.

“You really don’t want to change schools?” asked John.

Oliver shook his head.

Mycroft sighed, “If you’re sure, I’ll cancel the paperwork I sent to the other academy.”

“You’ll do that?” Oliver looked up at him.

Mycroft nodded and John put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder so the boy would look at him. “Oliver, we just want you to be happy and safe. If you want to stay at your school, that’s fine.”

“Thank you,” Oliver said, looking between John and Mycroft.

“On the condition that you never run away again,” Mycroft added.

Oliver nodded.

Mycroft left soon after. He mussed Oliver’s hair and gave him a one-armed hug. Oliver left the sitting room for a quick shower to warm up and get the grime out of his hair. John sat down in his arm chair, trying to read, but his leg was bouncing and he still felt anxious from the past days events. Nervous about if he could be enough for Oliver - he already almost ruined it. Did Oliver see it that way?

 _You’re not my parent!_ John sighed and rubbed his forehead, putting his book down. He had another headache.

Oliver walked into the living room and John looked up at him from the chair. His wet curly hair shined, and he pursed his lips. He didn’t say anything as he looked from John to Sherlock’s armchair, then back to John. Oliver stepped forward, lifted his foot and put it onto the cushion of the chair, dust drifting off it and swirling into the air. He pressed his foot down and lifted so he was standing on the cushion, then turned around and sunk down so his legs were crossed.

Something like understanding seemed to pass between them. John couldn’t be sure what happened, but a… change occurred. John thought back to what he said earlier; _I thought you were dead, you can’t do that to me_ , and how Oliver had stiffened with realization. Sherlock left him and now Oliver was here - Oliver wouldn’t replace Sherlock, but he would stay. He inhabited the space Sherlock used to fill and made it his own, and they both were okay with it.

It was Oliver and John now, and Sherlock was the space between them.

* * *

A week later Oliver came home from school in an excited rush and with a big smile.

“Good day?” John asked from his laptop.

Oliver nodded. “The boys that were messing with me got transferred out of the school. Some of the teachers from drugs in their lockers and proof of harassment so they got moved to a correctional school.”

“You won’t be bothered anymore?”

“I don’t think so. Those were to only people who really messed with me,” Oliver said.

John smiled at him, just as his phone chimed. He picked it up and a message from Mycroft lit up the screen with a simple message: _I’ve dealt with the problem._

John could have laughed.

* * *

 John got a call from Molly one evening. He hadn’t heard much from her since New Years almost two months ago, it was nice to talk to her. She mostly wanted to talk to him about work, and how he’s been, and trivial things like that. She asked if he’d want to get coffee sometime, and he agreed, then offered for her to go with Lestrade and himself at some point.

Before the call came to a close, Molly said, “Oh, right, John! I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember my niece, Emily?” Molly asked. “She’s been getting quite low marks recently in school, and I was wondering - if possible - Oliver would like to tutor her? She’s in the grade below him, and I’d be willing to pay Oliver if he’d like.”

John considered this, but he couldn’t remember if Emily and Oliver had gotten along at the New Years party. Oliver didn’t have any friends, other than the few “acquaintances” he called them, from his astronomy club, so maybe this would be a good chance for him to make a friend? It was worth a shot.

“That’s a lovely idea,” John said. “I can talk to Oliver about it.”

“Thank you, John,” Molly sighed. “She needs to raise her marks, else she’ll have to stay back a year. Her parents haven’t found anyone else to tutor her, since she’s always jumping between my house and theirs. Oliver’s her age, right? Maybe it will be different.”

John chuckled. “We’ll see.” He didn’t know how pleased Oliver would be about it.

They went over a few details, and John wished her well before they said goodbye. He ended the call and walked through the kitchen towards Oliver’s room, then knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

John pushed the door open. Oliver sat at his desk, his headphones around his neck and a pencil in his hand. A work in progress drawing laid across his desk, on a large sheet of paper he had brought home in a roll the day before. John couldn’t tell what Oliver planned out yet, most of it looked sketchy and rough, but he had no doubt it’d be a masterpiece.

“All right?” Oliver asked.

“Ah, yes,” John said. “Remember Molly - from the New Year’s party?”

Oliver’s face turned a touch pink. “Yes.”

“And her niece Emily?”

The pink on his cheeks faded and he frowned. “Of course, why?”

“I was just on the phone with Molly, and she’s asked if you’ll tutor Emily,” John said. “Emily’s in the grade below you, and she needs help passing her classes for the year. She’s offered to pay you as well.”

Oliver’s brow drew forward and he didn’t looked too chuffed. “Do I have to?”

“I’d prefer if you did,” John said, giving a somewhat ‘you’ll do it anyways’ smile. “I think it’d be good for you. Could help your own work as well. And you’ll make some money you can spend on art supplies.”

A conflicting range of emotions passed over Oliver’s face, ending with defeat as he slumped in his chair. “Fiiiiine,” he groaned.

John chuckled, saying “It starts next Friday,” as he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter that I'm a bit unsatisfied with, but that's why I'm updating on Thursday too.
> 
> Do you guys like when I occasionally switch into Oliver's POV? Share your thoughts in the comments, I love reading them!
> 
> (Also, I know a lot of people worry about cliches that happen with OCs, but don't worry, I hate that stuff too. So you don't have to worry about any cringe-y MarySue stuff with Emily. Honestly I just want a rival.)


	10. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ THIS**
> 
> Incase you missed it, I'm double updating this week! This means I posted chapter 9 AND 10, so make sure to go back and read the last chapter too!

Days turned into weeks, weeks blurred together and their lives went on. March passed without much happening. John went to work, then to therapy, saw Lestrade a few times and talked on the phone with Harry. Mrs Hudson came up for dinner occasionally, and some Saturdays Oliver went to stargaze.

At the end of the month, Oliver gave John a book series that had just been released for his birthday. John didn’t know where Oliver found out his birthday, but he appreciated the gift. He got a watch from Harry, Lestrade treated him to a meal and Mrs Hudson came up with biscuits. The weather warmed up and the seasons began to twist as April swung around the corner and began to pass just as fast as March. The snow and ice gave way to mud and rain, and people swapped their winter boots for wellies.

John got a note home for Oliver’s school and he opened it with hesitation, only to be surprised that Oliver was close to top of his class. Oliver had a shy smile and red face when John told that him how proud he was.

Oliver made good on his agreement to tutor Molly’s niece, and so Emily came over for for an hour on Friday nights. Oliver and her sat at the kitchen table and John kept out of the way, while Oliver explained equations and theorems. Emily look bored most of the time and Oliver looked vastly distressed. The endless bickering and disagreements that passed between them amused John to no end, even when Oliver put on his grumpy “I don’t care about any of this” facade that John didn’t fall for one bit.

“Oh, you like showing off how smart you are,” John would tease him and Oliver just huffed and crossed his arms.

Harry invited John and Oliver out to dinner on a Saturday evening, as she didn’t really get to talk with Oliver during New Years. John accepted, hopeful for the evening - he hadn’t really gotten to spend time with his sister the past few years and he hoped to start mending the bond that had somewhat broken between them. At dinner Harry and Oliver sat across from each other, and John between them at a small square table. Oliver idly stirred his straw through his ice water and John listened to Harry talk about a girl she just met.

“Her name’s Genevieve, and she’s wonderful, John, you’ve got to meet her,” Harry explained animatedly, a big smile on her face. “I think this time it’s really going to work out. I haven’t had a drink in almost half a year now.”

John smiled at the dopey look she got on her face. “I’m happy for you, Harry.”

Harry took a sip of her cherry soda and looked at Oliver, who seemed lost in his thoughts and small in the cushioned chair, framed by the elegant restaurant. “What about you, short stuff? Girlfriend?”

Oliver’s nose scrunched up. “Ew.”

“Boyfriend, then?” 

“Ew.”

Harry laughed. “All right then! You sure?”

Oliver nodded, his brows pulled together. “School is already enough to handle. I don’t even the time to consider something like that.”

John laughed and Harry raised an eyebrow at Oliver. Next thing he knew, Oliver and Harry were locked in an intense, playful stare-down. Oliver’s face stayed black and composed, his head tilted slightly to the side, while Harry leaned forward on her elbows with a smirk. Her nose twitched and they both giggled, losing the battle.

After saying goodbye to Harry and catching a cab, Oliver said, “Harry’s fun, I like her.”

The next night while John was sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop something clicked on the table in front of him. He lowered the screen and looked up at Oliver, then down to the table. The completed rubik’s cube sat there proudly. He looked up at Oliver, who adopted a silly smile.

“Done.” He declared.

John raised an eyebrow. “Amazing. Want a bigger one?”

Oliver nodded, and John went out and bought him a four by four by four, a size larger than the one he had before. Oliver set to work on it immediately, and John had faith he’d figure it out before the end of the summer.

April slipped through their fingers, and as May turned the corner the grass became green and the sky a shade bluer. Oliver hadn’t had a panic attack in weeks, disregarding one in the middle of the night that was more of a post-nightmare haze.

With summer quickly approaching, John couldn’t help the dark cloud in the back of his mind, reminding him the first year anniversary of Sherlock’s death loomed around the corner. He didn’t want to be around the flat during that time, and his therapist suggested he take Oliver on a vacation somewhere, right after the end of the school year. John’s mother sent him vacation money for Christmas, so he started looking for places to go. He’d surprise Oliver with the plan after his school exams finished.

Oliver had a month left of school, meaning he had practice exams weekly, which were all leading up to the finals at the end of the year. Oliver spent a lot of his free time at the kitchen table or the desk in his room, studying. John knew Oliver wanted to do well, but working himself up over it caused a few panic attacks and an air of nervous tension to constantly follow the boy around. He still tutored Emily on Fridays, but he snapped more often and John had to scold him more than once for taking it too far, particularly on the last Friday of May.

Emily sat across from Oliver at the table, as usual, and John sat at the desk in the living room. Oliver’s pencil anxiously tapped against the table and John could see his leg bouncing up and down while he waited for Emily to figure out some math problem. John knew how irritated Oliver was today, he hadn’t done well on a practice exam and told John he’d rather be studying.

Emily groaned and rolled her neck, then glared at Oliver. “How do your friends stand this insesent impatience?” 

“I don’t have friends,” Oliver sneered. John sighed internally. Here it comes.

* * *

“I don’t have friends,” Oliver sneered at her. Emily dropped her pencil and rolled her eyes. He couldn’t stand her. Only two more tutoring sessions and he’d be able to afford those paints he wanted.

“Maybe if you actually tried talking to people, you’d make some friends and everyone wouldn’t think you’re so weird!” Emily snapped.

Oliver felt his face grow red. He’s not weird! He saw red, and blurted out, “ _ Comment oses-tu! _ ”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what I mean. Do you even realize you were speaking French?”

That’s it! He hated her! Oliver leaned forward right in her face and glared at her, his brow drawn and nose scrunched up, “Yeah, well maybe your parents wouldn’t pawn you off on your aunt all the time if you shut up once in awhile!”

Emily gasped and the anger in her face dropped away. Then she stood up, her chair scraping across the floor. She looked down at him, her face twisted and snarled, “You’re such a  _ freak _ .”

She ran from the kitchen and out the flat, her feet stomping down the steps until the front door opened and slammed shut. She had left all her school work and bag.

“Oliver!” John scolded from the living room. Oliver jolted and whipped his head to see John looking extremely not happy, standing by the armchair.

“What?” Oliver scoffed. “You’re defending  _ her? _ Didn’t you hear what she just said?”

John frown at him. ‘That doesn’t mean you can say things like that about her parents. Be the better person here, and go apologize.”

“No!” Oliver shouted. He stood up and gestured to the front door. “Not until she apologizes first!” She called him  _ weird _ and a  _ freak _ . What gave her the right to do that? She had no idea what he went through at school, how much it took out of him to stay above the average so he could keep his spot in the higher grade. So what if he didn’t have friends?

“You’re behaving like a child, Oliver. Go. Apologize.”

Oliver glared at John for a moment of protest, before realizing John always won these types of arguments. He groaned and dragged himself to pick up her bag and shove the papers into it, making sure to slam things around so John knew how unhappy he was. He pulled on his shoes and stomped down the stairs, dragging the bag behind him. Maybe he could just throw the bag outside and wait by the door for a few minutes. Oliver glanced up the stairs and  John stood on the landing, arms crossed and leaning against the wall.

“Go on, then.”

Oliver sighed and pulled the door open, stepping outside. The spring air washed over his face and for a moment, he forgot his irritation, enjoying the warm breeze. He looked down the sidewalk, left then right and saw Emily sitting on the kerb a few doors down. He rolled his eyes, and walked over, then dropped her bag at his feet.

“Here,” he said.

She looked up, snatched the bag away from him and set it on her other side. Oliver didn’t leave, because he knew he had to apologize like John told him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to.

After a moment, Emily snapped, “What? Are you just going to stand there all day? Go away, weirdo.”

Oliver huffed through his nose and close his hands into fists. John told him to be the better person. “I - I’m sorry for what I said about your parents. I lashed out because I’ve been stressed out this week.”

Emily looked up at him with her eyebrows raised. Her eyes slid away and she frowned. 

“I’m sorry, Emily,” Oliver said again, hoping for an acceptance this time. Then he could go back inside and be angry in his room.

“Fine, whatever,” Emily sighed. “Apology accepted, go away.”

Satisfied, Oliver left her and went back up to the flat, and found John waiting in the sitting room. “Did you apologize?”

“Yes,” Oliver groaned. He kicked off his shoes and gathered his homework up off the table. 

“I don’t want to hear you talk like that again, right?”

“Okay,” Oliver said, exasperated. He fled to his room before they could get into a bigger argument. 

* * *

The month went on, and June came. Oliver did well enough on his exams, so he’ll continue to stay in the year ahead, and John told him about the vacation he planned. They decided on going east to Botany Bay, a rural area with a beautiful white rock cliffside beach and a small town. Oliver didn’t want to go overseas, and John was okay with staying closeby. Oliver told John in excitement the sky would be a lot more clear over the ocean, and he wanted to bring his telescope.

School ended for Oliver a few days before the anniversary of Sherlock’s death, and John planned on having them both as far away from 211B as possible by then.

As things go, of course Oliver fell sick the first day of his summer break. He hadn’t come out of his room that morning, and John assumed Oliver decided to sleep in since he didn’t have to go to school, but when he wasn’t up by noon John went to check on him and found his forehead burning up with a fever.

So the first few days of summer Oliver stayed in bed, sweating out the fever. John went to work during the day since Oliver mostly slept, and asked Mrs Hudson to check on him every hour or so. Oliver stayed mostly quiet while sick, and when he did talk John couldn’t understand him because he didn’t seem to realize he spoke French the entire time. John remembered when Sherlock got a fever once - he had been absolutely miserable, moaning and complaining constantly. Oliver just wanted to stay curled up in his bed, either sleeping, listening to music or doodling if he felt he could. Another thing to add to his list of differences between Sherlock and Oliver.

Of course, right when Oliver started getting better, John started getting worse. Just when Oliver finally felt well enough to get up and take a shower and eat dinner at the table, John collapsed in bed flush with the same fever. That’s why they ended up staying in the flat on June 12th, exactly a year after Sherlock’s death.

John felt suffocatingly depressed about it, too. He had finally broken his fever the night before, but now they had a whole day to just sit in the flat with nothing to do and it felt  _ just like _ those few months after Sherlock’s death when John was alone. He turned his phone off because apparently everyone just coincidently “wanted to check in” with him today. John tried to write, but the flat was  _ quiet _ and he tried not to think about it and that just made it worse, and Oliver was in his room so there’s no movement and he’s  _ alone _ .

Eventually he ended up sprawled out on his stomach on the couch, his cheek pressed into the cushion and his fingers idly tapping the floor where his arm hung off. John desperately didn’t want to feel like this. He really tried to prevent it, because he knew - he  _ knew _ \- being in the flat would effect him. He felt awful and angry but mostly nothing at all because even a year later that whirlwind of a man still had power over him.

He laid there for what felt like only a few moments but then Oliver appeared in front of him and crouched down, then tilted his head.

“Do you want anything for dinner?” Oliver asked, voice quiet.

John blinked, wondering exactly how long he had been dead to the world, lost in his thoughts. He’d lain down around noon. Then he sighed, “I’m not hungry.” He lifted his head and turned to face the back of the couch.

Oliver shuffled around the kitchen, cabinets and the fridge opening and closing, a plate being set on the counter. Then he heard Oliver’s socked feet pad into the living room, and his clothes ruffle. John turned to look and saw Oliver sat down on the the floor next to the coffee table, eating a sandwich.

He gave another attempt at getting John to talk, but John just said he wasn’t in the mood. Oliver finished eating and disappeared downstairs, probably to Mrs Hudson’s flat. John watched as the sun that lit up the sitting room crawled up the ceiling, an orange glow as the sun set and disappeared. John’s sure he slept the night on the couch because he woke up smelling coffee while the sitting room slowly became light again. John groaned and sat up from the couch, rubbing a hand over his face.

Not feeling much better, but not wanting to mope another day away, he jumped in the shower and stayed in there half an hour just letting the water trail down his skin and run off his fingertips. Once done, he made coffee and took to sitting at the desk and looking out the window. He drummed his fingers against the mug and his leg bounced up and down. He checked the time - just after nine in the morning. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

Oliver came out of his room, already dressed, and made toast then joined John in the living room, sitting in the armchair. They sat in silence for a while.

“I’m sorry I was so out of it yesterday,” John said awkwardly.

Oliver nodded, but didn’t say anything for a few minutes, before, “John?”

John looked up from his mostly cold coffee.

“It’s okay if - if you don’t want to talk about this, but - erm, they never told me, and I just. I want to know -” Oliver took a breath. “Why did he jump?”

John gripped his mug tighter and turned his head away. “Sherlock -” he sighed. The reasons were complicated, and John wasn’t sure himself if he knew the whole of it. “He jumped because… because was framed for a kidnapping and publicly shamed by the entire police force and media. They drove him to his own death. Didn’t you see the news?”

Oliver shook his head. “I… avoided.... Most things about Sherlock. Especially after he started becoming popular.”

John didn’t respond and silence settled around them again. John stood and dumped his cold coffee down the drain, then dropped his mug in the sink. He turned around and saw Oliver had followed him, looking a little apprehensive.

“All right?”

Oliver’s toes curled on the floor. “I’ve… never been to his grave.”

“Your grandparents didn’t bring you?” John frowned.

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t even go to his funeral,” Oliver looked ashamed.

“Do you… do you want to go?”

Oliver looked up at him and nodded.

John bit his lip. “All right. Okay. I’ll call a cab.”

* * *

At the graveyard, John stayed in the car with his eyes closed. He didn’t want to be at the graveyard and he didn’t want to see Sherlock’s grave. Instead he leaned his head against the window and shut his eyes, willing this to be over quickly. Oliver hesitated, drumming his fingers on the door handle before eventually opening it and climbing out. John felt that maybe he should tell Oliver the gravestone was situated beneath a tree, towards the back, but his mouth wouldn’t open, and the boy already left.

Oliver came back about ten minutes later, and John looked up at him, but he obviously had lost himself in his thoughts. John told the driver to bring them home.

The next few days around the flat were quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat of a depressing chapter... but it had to happen sooner or later.
> 
> Do you think I handled John's grief well? Did you like the scene with Harry? Let me know in the comments!
> 
> Here's the translation for Oliver's French when he began arguing with Emily:
> 
> "Comment oses-tu!" means "How dare you!"
> 
>  
> 
> (also, the next chapter is one of the longest yet!)


	11. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you didn't miss the chapter I posted last Thursday (there were two last week)! That was chapter 10!

It wasn’t until the end of June that they actually were able to put together their trip. Mycroft offered to fly them out to Botany Bay, or have someone drive them, but John insisted on driving himself. The two hour drive would feel long enough, he didn’t really want to sit in the back of a car with some random driver he’d never met, and it seemed like a waste to fly.

Sunday afternoon a rental car waited outside 221B for them, and John rolled his eyes. He told Mycroft he could get one himself, but that man never listened anyways. They planned on being gone a week, and threw their bags into the trunk and strapped Oliver’s telescope down in the back seat. John gave Mrs Hudson a hug goodbye and promised with a laugh that he’d call when they got there (she worried they’d get lost).

Oliver had already climbed into the passenger seat and he honked the horn then leaned out the window. “Hurry up!”

John could see him bouncing in his seat, and he chuckled then slid in behind the wheel. Because they left in the late afternoon they didn’t get to their hotel until the sun started to set. The hotel room had a balcony that gave them a wonderful view of the cliffs and the ocean just past that. Oliver, after setting his bags and telescope case down, threw open the door and inhaled, his hair blowing back off his face and the orange glow of the sunset spilling into the room.

“I love that smell,” he grinned over his shoulder.

“Have you been to the ocean before?” John asked, setting his bag on the bed closest to the door.

“Mhm, grandmother and grandfather took me a few times,” Oliver said. “It was always to really extravagant places though, with lots of people. I think I like this better.”

Oliver stepped out onto the small balcony and leaned on the railing.

“Come unpack your bag and we can go find someplace for dinner,” John told him.

* * *

“How do you figure that out?”

Oliver looked up from leaning intensely over his Rubik’s cube, his hands freezing their swift motions. “Hm?”

“You move it in a pattern, right?” John asked. “I can see you repeating a certain pattern, and it just looks like nothing is happening, but then suddenly you’ve solved a side of it.”

Oliver tilted his head and looked down at his head. “Yeah I guess so.”

“So how do you solve it?”

“A rubik’s cube is a series of algorithms,” Oliver said, holding it up. “Like a 3D math equation. I just have to figure algorithms out and memorize them. See?”

He twisted it a specific way a few times, not changing the orientation of the cube, and the the blue side clicked into place. “But if I lose track of what I’m doing or forget a twist, it messes the whole thing up and I have to start over. It’s just a lot of patterns.”

John stayed quiet while he watched Oliver continue to twist and pull the sides of the cube until the red face clicked together. He turned the cube and the blue face messed up again. Oliver made a frustrated noise, then started again. 

That morning they spent the time trying to find a tiny gift shop that sold unique things that washed up on the beach. They didn’t find it until the afternoon and it turned out to be closed on Mondays, to their great disappointment. John said they would go back and Oliver spent a few minutes looking through the shop window, his hands shielding the glass from the sun. They found a place to buy sandwiches and wandered back to their hotel to eat. John leaned in the doorway of the balcony, watching Oliver who sat on the floor cross-legged.

After a few more minutes, he said, “We could go to the beach, if you want.”

Oliver paused.

“You don’t have to go in the water, I don’t think I’m going to,” John said, leaning his arms on the balcony railing. “You could just bring you notebook and draw. It’s so warm out, and it will be cooler down by the water.”

“Okay,” Oliver stood up. “Do you think it will be crowded?”

John shrugged, picking his mobile off the table. “Maybe. We can find a place to sit with less people, if it is. You need some sunlight.”

Oliver looked down at his own pale skin and thin legs and John laughed. John opened the door and Oliver shuffled to gather his notebook and drawing pencils and jogged after him, pulling the door shut with his foot. They walked out of the small area of the town they stayed in, and followed the long grass path out to the dip in the cliff to get down by the water. 

People spread out across the soft sand, but not as many people as John had expected. Most of them were laughing and stretched out, but some were in the water, splashing and shouting and roughhousing. John turned to look over his shoulder at Oliver, then frowned. Oliver had his eyes glued to the people splashing around in the water, dunking each other and kicking around. His hands wrapped around his notebook, holding it to his chest.

“All right?” John asked, already knowing the look on Oliver’s face.

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to get any closer.”

“Are you sure? We could just sit in the sand up there,” John pointed to an open, sunny area of the beach.

Oliver took a few steps back, “No… no, I want to stay over here.”

John sighed. “You know you aren’t in any danger.”

Oliver didn’t answer him, still staring at the people in the water.

“Okay, okay,” John said, putting his hands up. “We can sit in the grass up here then.”

John walked past Oliver and sat down in the grass, leaning back on his hands. Oliver followed him tentatively and sat down, then leaned back, flopping into the grass to look up at the sky. John watched Oliver close his eyes, then turned his own face up to the sun, enjoying the warmth and breeze that ruffled the grass and his hair. The air smelt different here, not just because of the ocean. It felt lighter and smoother in his lungs.

The next morning when John woke up, Oliver stood out on the balcony bouncing the rubik’s cube between his two hands. When John shifted to get out of bed, Oliver turned around and immediately started talking.

“We should go to that shop after breakfast that was closed yesterday, because they had some super cool stuff in there, but after I found this neat looking forest trail online that we should follow,” he said, following John around the room while he tried to find his socks. “It’s really nice out, so the woods will be pretty and I kind of want to find something to draw so-”

“Oliver,” John interrupted with a laugh. “Take a breath.”

Oliver sucked in a huge breath of air.

“I’m going to take a shower first, then we can get breakfast and go to that shop.”

Oliver nodded, his curls bouncing around his face. John shook his head with a smile and headed toward the bathroom.

The tiny shop full of things that washed up on the beach had sea glass, bottles from the 1900’s, parts of sunken ships, broken telescopes, ruined copies of books pulled from the waves, jars full of things like buttons or brooches, rusted old keys, smoking pipes and all sorts of other stuff. Oliver found a basket full of unique pens that had washed up and started sifting through it while John examined a massive fossilized tooth hung up on the wall.

He turned around to look at Oliver, “See anything you want?”

Oliver shrugged. “Not really, I just like looking.”

John nodded and picked up tiny glass bottle, covered in stains that had a small key inside of it and make a soft sound when he shook it. They left the shop without buying anything, but were content just to have seen what it had to offer. Oliver showed John on a map where the trail up in the woods was, and they bought a lunch to take with them.

They spent the rest of the day in the woods where the light filtered through the leaves and the only sounds were creeks trickling across the forest floor until dusk, when they headed back to the hotel.

At the hotel, Oliver took out his telescope and John helped him set it up on the narrow balcony. Oliver pulled one of the chairs from the end table in their room outside and set his notebook on it, then spent an hour switching between looking through the telescope and writing in the notebook. John sat inside on his bed, reading, until he noticed Oliver yawning every few seconds and told him to go to sleep.

Oliver glanced through glass door at the alarm clock, and protested. “It’s only eleven!”

“You can barely keep your eyes opened,” John raised an eyebrow at him. “How do you know your notes are accurate if you keep yawning or bumping the telescope?”

He looked up at the sky, then down at his notebook and sighed. “Yeah, okay.” He folded the tripod and brought the telescope inside, then his notebook and the chair and dragged the door shut. He turned to look at John like ‘happy now?’ and shuffled across the room to get changed in the bathroom. John rolled his eyes, not buying Oliver’s grumpiness for a second.

* * *

They try the beach again, going around lunchtime the next day when Oliver looked a little more comfortable and there are less people. They find a place close the water, but shaded by the cliffs. John stood ankle deep in the water, breathing in the smell the ocean and digging his toes into the soft sand.

Oliver started walking around at the bottom of the cliff, picking up seashells or anything else that washed up and stuck there. He brought everything he found back to his notepad and started sketching them, his legs crossed in the sand and his head bent over the paper. John walked over to him, his feet getting covered the in the sand, and sat down, leaning back on his hands. John watched, intrigued, by the way Oliver brought a scene to life by dragging the pencil all over the paper, barely lifting it up with quick motions.

“Do you think we can come back to the beach after dark with my telescope?” Oliver asked, not looking up from his notebook. “The sky is suppose to be clear tonight.”

John nodded. “All right. I doubt there will be any people either.”

So that night, John helped dig the legs of the tripod into the sand while Oliver switched the lens on his telescope. Oliver bent and looked through the scope, turning it slightly, then pulling away.

“Mars is in retrograde, but it’s ending soon.” He said, beckoning John to look. “It’s the bright one in the middle, it looks sort of yellow right now.”

John stepped forward and looked through, finding the bright planet immediately. He wouldn’t tell Oliver, but they all looked the same to him. “How can you tell it’s in retrograde?” He asked.

Oliver looked through the scope again. “It  _ looks _ like it’s moving backwards, compared to yesterday. Because it’s orbit has changed slightly.”

John listened and watched while Oliver pointed upwards, and had him look at different things through the telescope, telling him what the alignments of the planets meant and which star was actually a planet or asteroid. John hadn’t known just how much Oliver knew about astronomy until he became immersed in talking about it.

Eventually Oliver and him ended up laying in the sand, just looking up at the vast sky without the telescope. Everything looked so much more clear here, without the lights from London dulling the effect of the stars. The slight breeze rustled the plant life that grew along the edges of the cliffs, and the low tide of water lapped softly and quietly a few yards away from their feet.

“Everything’s stopped,” Oliver said, breaking the silence.

John turned his head. “What?”

“Everything around us - it feels like it’s finally at a stop,” he said, reaching up and splaying his fingers, like he could grab onto a star and pull it to the ground. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person on this whole planet that’s grounded here, and everything and everyone is rushing around me in circles, too blurred for me to make out before they’re gone. But right now… the Earth has stopped moving too, frozen in this single moment.”

John looked back up at the sky. Oliver was right.

* * *

They spent the next day in the town over, going to all the cliche tourist shops and passing a bag of sweets between them the entire day. Oliver would throw pieces up in the air and catch them in his mouth, and John would find ridiculous hats to put on the boy while he wasn’t looking.

“Remember that game,” Oliver asked, trying on a pair of sunglasses in a mirror, “where we each ask a question and both have to answer it? Let’s play that.”

So they did, walking from store to store, not quite looking at everything or searching for anything in particular. Oliver liked to pick up weird looking animal trinkets and say “this is you” while John kept dropping things like shirts on Oliver’s head to momentarily blind him.

“Favorite time of day?” John asked, knowing the answer.

“Night!” Oliver chirped, putting on fake glasses that had a little plastic mustache hanging from them.

“Late morning.”

The rest of the day went the same, but John had fun, and Oliver smiled more than John had seen in one day before.

On Thursday, he could literally see the waves of heat in the air it was so hot. John wanted to swim, so Oliver trotted after him to the beach equipped with his notebook and Rubik’s cube. The beach had more people this time, since the sun decided to roast human life alive today, but they found a quiet place at the very end of the beach. Oliver sat on a towel in the hot sand, and brushed the curls that stuck to his face with sweat out of his eyes.

“Are you not dying of heat?” John asked. Oliver wore a black tee shirt and shorts - John felt overheated in his green tank top and blue swimming trunks, he had no idea how Oliver could stand it.

“It’s not too bad,” Oliver said, but John could see that, yes, the heat bothered the boy.

“You don’t have to swim, but why don’t you step into the water? It’s nice and cold,” John said, already knee deep in the refreshing waves. He planned on swimming with his tank top on as he hadn’t actually gone swimming since he came back from Afghanistan and the scars that covered his chest and shoulder made him more self-conscious than he’d like to admit.

Oliver’s eyes slid away, like they usually did when he felt nervous. “I don’t know…”

John beckoned him with a hand. “Look, I’m right here, you can see how deep it is. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Oliver fidget for another moment, then set his things to the side and stood to shuffle forward. He toed off his sneakers and socks, edged forwards until his toes slid into the chilly water. Then he stepped forward up to his ankles, watching the surface of the water carefully.

“See? It’s not too bad, right?”

“I - I guess not,” Oliver shrugged.

John smiled and walked backwards, deeper into the water until it reached hip level.

“Wait, wait, don’t go so far,” Oliver looked a bit panicked, reaching out for John and without realizing it, moved deeper into the water. “This is awful, I - I can’t do it, I -”

“Breathe, Oliver. Deep breath,” John said, then did so himself, watching Oliver copy. “If you want to go back you can, but look.”

Oliver looked down, realizing he had walked out so the water rose to his thighs. He looked up with wide eyes at John, then looked back to the shore, then down at the water again.

“Do you want to go back?”

Oliver visibly swallowed, then shook his head. “It’s… not that bad.”

John grinned at him and kept walking backwards, until the water reached chest level on him and he bent his knees, letting the water rise to his shoulders. He welcomed the chill of the smooth water on his skin, a huge contrast from the heat in the air. Oliver, slowly, while watching the water, started walking deeper.

As soon as he came close enough, John lifted his hands up and flicked water at him.

“Hey!” Oliver pouted, flinching away from it. John laughed, until Oliver hit the water in front of himself, thoroughly splashing John back. John sputtered and wiped his hand across his face, then stood up and flung his hand out of the water, getting Oliver again. This time he laughed, and seemed to forget about how deep he walked into the water, now determined to hit John with a bigger splash.

Oliver forgot about his fear of the water, lost in the moment of fun, and John wanted to keep it that way. They chased each other through the water, splashing and laughing until Oliver became just as soaked as John, his hair plastered to his face and his black tee shirt hanging heavy off his frame. John trudged out of the water and collapsed, not minding all the hot sand that stuck to his wet skin. His sighed, content and vastly cooled down. Oliver still stood by the water, wringing out his tee shirt before tugging it back on, then walking over and sitting in the sand next to John - his notebook and rubik’s cube forgotten on the blanket behind them.

“That wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be,” Oliver said, turning his face up towards the sun. “I forgot that I’m afraid of the water. It doesn’t seem so bad now.”

John chuckled. “Are you glad you went in?”

Oliver traced his fingers through the sand. “Yeah. And I’m glad we got out of London for a while.”

“Me too,” John said, closing his eyes against the heat of the sun. Baker Street had driven him crazy the past few weeks, and he felt the weight of the depressive air in the flat lift off his chest with his time at Botany Bay. He wondered if that’s what Oliver meant.

* * *

John jolted awake in the middle of the night and whipped around to look at Oliver in the other bed. The boy was sitting upright with his hand twisted in his shirt above his heart and his breathing came hard and fast and his skin glinted with sweat, while he looked around with panicked eyes. John threw off his blanket and stepped over to Oliver’s bed, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and shaking him a little.

“Oliver,” John said, trying to catch his attention. “Oliver look at me. Shh, come one.”

Oliver’s breathing started to even out and his hand loosened against his chest. His eyes flicked around in the dark until they found John’s and he let out a gasp of air.

“Are you all right?”

Oliver swallowed thickly and nodded, then choked out, “I had - uh, a nightmare.”

“Was is about the water?” John asked, his mouth turned downward. He thought today had helped, but he knew nothing ever worked that quickly. He just hoped the nightmare didn’t make things worse.

“Yeah,” Oliver sighed. “Sorry I woke you.”

John shook his head and squeezed Oliver’s shoulder, then moved back and sat on the edge of his bed. “Don’t worry about it. You  _ know _ you can wake me when you’re having problems and I don’t mind.”

Oliver nodded, his fingers twisting in the blanket. He took a deep breath. “I’m okay now.”

“All right,” John said, sliding under his own blankets again. He winced when the sunburn on the backs of his shoulders caught the cotton, but waited until he could hear Oliver’s breathing even out - to make sure he fell asleep - before drifting off again.

* * *

At the end of their vacation, exactly a week after they arrived, John and Oliver packed up to go home, tanned and content to leave. Oliver kept smiling without realizing it, and John felt a warmth in his chest like the sun. While a little sad that they had to leave, they each were glad to get back to London.

John and Mycroft had already made plans for after their vacation. Oliver and him would stay one night back at Baker Street, and then Mycroft planned on sending a car for them so Oliver could visit his grandparents for a couple days. John said he’d be okay if Oliver wanted to go alone, but Oliver said his grandparents would want to see John too. John smiled at that, and really didn’t mind going.

Getting home felt odd. John dropped off the rental car, then they took a taxi back to the flat. Mrs Hudson greeted them hello, and John gave her the seashell decoration he had bought for her. Oliver went into his room for a while, and John collapsed onto the couch, wondering why coming home from a vacation made him so tired. Wasn’t the point of a vacation to re-energize? John chuckled to himself, thinking that  _ of course _ even something peaceful like this would be backwards for him. He opened the windows to let the summer air into the flat, appreciating one of the first dry summers in London in the past years.

After lunch the next day, a car picked them up and brought them to the Holmes estate. They’d only stay the night, something Oliver decided. Violet hugged them both again and John shook Sigar’s hand in greeting. While Oliver excitedly told his grandparents about Botany Bay, John took his bag up to the room he had stayed in last time. He liked having plans and being busy - it felt like a distraction. From what, he couldn’t quite be sure and didn’t dwell on trying to figure it out. He walked back downstairs to find Sigar and Oliver talking, but Violet has run off somewhere.

“Have you gotten taller?” Sigar asked Oliver, using his hand to measure Oliver’s height against himself. Now that he said it, John could see the different too. Oliver definitely shot up a bit.

“Have I?” Oliver asked, his eyes brightening while straightening his back.

Oliver spent time with his grandparents most of the day, and John stayed out of the way, finding a place to sit and read in the library. He knew Oliver missed them, and a part of him realized that Oliver  _ wanting _ John to come with him while he visited must mean something important.

The door to the library creaked open at some point and Oliver asked, “Want to walk through the gardens with me? Everything is in full bloom, it’s very pretty.”

John nodded and followed Oliver towards the back doors. That past winter he had wondered what the large gardens would look like when they came alive, and had almost forgotten about them. When they stepped outside, his guess at what they looked like was blown away. The vast colors and immaculate arrangements of flowers looked unlike anything he’d seen before. The trees along the edges of the property bloomed bright green, some dotted with white or pinkish flowers. 

John followed Oliver around the gardens for almost an hour, while Oliver pointed out his favorite flowers or picked up an odd looking bug to show him. Oliver said he collected bugs when he was young, and his grandmother would have a fit, but his grandfather encouraged the curiosity and bought him jars to put them in. “They would always die, and that kind of confused me, but I kept them anyways, ” Oliver told him. “until I accidently killed a butterfly and cried for two days because of it.”

After dinner, John helped Sigar with the washing up while Violet tended to some of the plant life around the house. John stood at the sink, and he could see Oliver through the window, up in a tree with one of his legs dangling down and his notebook balanced on his other knee. The sunset made the grass look softer in color and flowers glow. John looked back down at the dishes and finished scrubbing a plate, then stacked it on the drying rack.

“Need help with anything else?” John turned, asked Sigar who had just finished packing the leftovers and placing them in the fridge.

Sigar shook his head, “I should probably find where my wonderful wife has disappeared to.”

John chuckled and dried his hands on a towel, then walked from the kitchen into the foyer, when the glass door slid open and Oliver stepped in, looking embarrassed. He paused when he saw John and shifted awkwardly, moving his left leg behind the other.

“All right?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver avoided making eye contact, his head tilted, then he mumbled. “I fell out of the tree.”

John furrowed his brow and Oliver lifted his left leg to show John a bleeding gash on the outside of his calf. Blood ran down the boy’s leg, staining the white sock that stuck out of his shoe.

“Jesus, Oliver,” John said, stepping forward to look closer. “You’re going to need that stitched, how bad does it hurt?”

He shrugged. “It’s not too bad, it just stings.”

“It’s bleeding pretty bad, come on,” John said. Oliver followed him into the large downstairs bathroom, and sat on the edge of the bath while John dug in the cabinet to find a medical kit. Oliver stayed still, hissing slightly while John cleaned it of dirt and held gauze on it. “Do you want me to stitch it, or go to A&E?”

Oliver’s brow drew forward. “You can?”

“Of course I can, remember I’m a doctor?” John raised an eyebrow. “There’s supplies right here I could use, but it will hurt. I’ll give you pain medication for it.”

“Um… all right,” Oliver nodded, looking hesitant.

“You’re sure? We can go to A&E, they give you proper medication - it won’t hurt as bad.”

He nodded again, less hesitant. “No, I want you to do it.

“All right,” John said, then got to work, giving Oliver something for the pain, and giving it time to kick in before sterilizing everything and starting to close the gash. Oliver looked away, eyes squeezed shut and his knuckles turning white where he gripped the edge of the tub. It only took a few seconds, the gash wasn’t more than three inches long - just a bit too wide for it to hold together on it’s own. When John finished, he put a plaster over it and told Oliver it was done.

“Will it scar?” Oliver asked.

“Not forever, just until it’s fully healed.”

He nodded, staring at the plaster like he could see through it. John washed his hands and said, “No more climbing in trees he next couple of days, all right?”

Oliver frowned. “I won’t fall again.”

John gave him a look while drying off his hands, then poked Oliver in the forehead. “I don’t want you tearing the stitches is all.”

“Oh,” Oliver responded, facing reddening a bit. He trailed after John when he walked from the bathroom. “I love it here in the summer, I like climbing the trees.”

“I can tell,” John said, smiling over his shoulder. “We’ll visit again before summer ends.”

Oliver nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and looking out the windows they walked past. The sun had fully set, and the stars blinked to life from behind the dark clouds. “I think I really like being at Baker Street even more, though.”

John stopped and turned to look at the boy, who just smiled.

* * *

“Oliver?” John called through the kitchen, finally back in 221B. “We’re setting up those tutoring sessions again - Emily is in summer school and could use the help.”

He listened for Oliver’s response, but it just turned into a long, drawn out groan of distaste that left John chuckling. He wouldn’t ask if Oliver truly hated it  _ that much _ \- John knew the boy liked showing off his intelligence, despite the distress he pretended to have. The extra money he always spent on art supplies. He bought paints and canvases more often, and John hadn’t seen any of the paintings, but he wondered if painting was something new he decided to try, or something he’d done before. 

Molly brought Emily over on a Wednesday after lunch, and John asked if she wanted to stay for tea while Emily and Oliver figured out what she needed to work on during the summer. Oliver looked happy to see Molly, which still amused John, and Emily looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Good to see you again, Oliver,” Molly smiled at him.

Oliver’s cheeks turned a few shades red and he nodded. “Uh-um, good to see you to.”

Molly laughed and ruffled his hair, leaving him even more flustered until John ushered him into the kitchen with Emily. He made tea while the teenagers bickered with each other, setting up their usual papers and such. John and Molly sat at the desk across from each other. She looked so much better than the last time they had properly spoken.

He skin had that natural glow to it again, and she fell into the easy smile she used to wear. John was glad. They talked about a few trivial things - John and Oliver’s vacation, Molly’s job, that book they had both read. Molly said she was going on vacation herself in two weeks, taking a plane out to the tropics.

“I love London, but the weather here is so… depressing. Even in the summer,” she sighed, taking a gulp from her tea.

John nodded, “That’s why we left for a week. This summer has been one of the better the past few years, though.”

“Mm, that’s true.”

“Who are you going with?”

Molly looked away a bit awkwardly, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, well I - I sort of met someone a while ago. He’s taking me,” she explained, blushing a bit.

“Who?” Oliver snapped from the kitchen. John gave him a look, and he turned back to his papers, face red.

John smiled back at Molly. “That’s wonderful, Molly, I’m happy for you.”

She nodded shyly, taking another drink to hide a smile.

* * *

Summer moved slowly, the days dry and humid. The sun doesn’t always come out, but when it did John and Oliver took walks through the park. Once in awhile Oliver asked if they could go out with his telescope at night, wanting to keep up with what his club had been studying during the school year. Some days things were quiet around the flat, and they could go hours without a word spoken between them. John sat in his chair, typing or reading or watching the telly, and Oliver sat in the other armchair, drawing or twisting the rubik’s cube. On days like those, John wondered why he was ever hesitant about bringing this boy into his life. Everything seemed frozen peacefully in time, not a whisper could be heard from the outside world, only the serenity and soft movement from inside the castle they’d built around themselves. And then - John understood what Oliver meant when he said it felt like he was the only grounded person in the world, and everything else was rushing around him.

Other days, the flat was loud when they talked and laughed or John told stories about a particularly difficult patient from the surgery. When John’s at work, Oliver stayed home alone and had lunch down at Mrs Hudson’s. Harry visited again, and she’s still sober and John’s still proud. Mrs Hudson came up for dinner, and John went out with Greg for coffee or lunch. Mycroft even visited for tea once, just to check in on Oliver. John wished Oliver had friends he could go spend time with, but then again each time Emily came over to study John thought that maybe Oliver did have somewhat of a friend, in an odd way. 

John came home a bit early from the surgery one day and heard music playing from inside the flat. He raised an eyebrow and cracked the door open as quiet as he could. He couldn’t see Oliver, but the music was playing from a portable speaker connected to Oliver’s phone on the coffee table. It was the same acoustic rock music he had heard Oliver listening to months ago. A shadow moved along the wall and John closed the door slightly, watching and trying not to laugh as Oliver moved into view, dancing along to the music, his hair bobbing around while he mouthed the words of the song into an imaginary microphone.

John smirked and scrambled to grab his phone out of his pocket, holding it up and snapping a photo just as Oliver spun around and whipped his head back in a dramatic pose with a huge smile. John covered his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing and shut the door quietly.

Oliver had a fit when the photo appeared tacked above the mantel a few days later, and John cackled from the kitchen.

Their lives were content, and John felt… happy. Really happy.

That’s what brought him to a decision in early August, one the never thought he’d have to make. It felt right, and John knew it would have to happen eventually.

“Oliver?”

“Hm?” He looked up from his notebook.

“Would you like to go through Sherlock’s things with me?” John asked. “It’s all been sitting in 221C for almost a year.”

Oliver’s eyes flicked towards the door and he nodded. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, mostly a lighter break from the angst, I hope you guys liked it!
> 
> I struggled a lot with this chapter because not much _actually_ happens in it, but it needed to be written for their characters and to keep pace with the time. What do you all think? Is it good anyways?
> 
> Happy Independence Day to my friends in the U.S!


	12. Growing

The naked light flickered to life, hanging from a fraying wire in the center of the cracked ceiling. John coughed as he pushed the door open and jiggled the key out of the lock. Dust floated gently about the room, suspended in the stale air. He stepped around the boxes and yanked the window open, hoping to air the musty room out. Oliver walked hesitantly towards the boxes. Some were marked ‘clothing’ or ‘science equipment’ or ‘books’ but most of them were unlabeled.

A weight settled in his stomach, and his throat felt tight at the thought of going through everything, but it had to be done. John unfolded the flaps of a box on top of a stack. “You can take whatever you want, but I think we should donate some of the science equipment and some clothing. Maybe some of the books can come back upstairs.”

Oliver nodded, silent but not unexpectedly so. He knelt down on the barren floor and opened up a box full of books to sort through them.

“If there’s anything you think your grandparents would like, set it aside,” John said. “I might have Mycroft come over and look through them as well.”

Neither of them spoke much, going through the boxes. John put an empty box to the side and put some books and other things to bring up to the flat in it. A lot of the science equipment he would bring to a school, like Mrs Hudson suggested originally. The microscope would stay, probably back in the box in a closet somewhere. He couldn’t bring himself to give that away.

He picked up a lighter box, setting it on the stack and opening it. This box held Sherlock’s gun, - an illegal one, he remembered - the skull, his scarf and that book on the solar system. John trailed his fingers over the skull, feeling nostalgic. Then the gun, and his fingers paused before they wrapped around the navy blue scarf. John sighed, an odd feeling rising up into his chest that clogged his throat and tickled the back of his eyes. The urge to lift the scarf and press his face into it overwhelmed him, so he let go of it and slid the encyclopedia out of the box instead. He smiled at it, thinking about Oliver and the irony of this book’s existence in their home.

“Here,” John said, holding it out to Oliver. “You probably won’t have much of a use for it, but it’s a funny thing. Sherlock didn’t know that the Earth circled the sun. He didn’t think the knowledge was important, but I found this in his room last year.”

Oliver took it from John, the corner of his lips quirking up a bit. He set it into the box of things they’ll keep, then looked into the box John had. “Is that a real skull?”

John nodded, lifting it out of the box. “Yup. No idea whose, but Sherlock kept it on the mantle and used to talk to it.”

Oliver took it from him and inspected it.

“Do you want it?”

Oliver nodded, and put it with the encyclopedia.

They went back to doing their own sorting. John found some books to keep, and the suits he knew he couldn’t get rid of. Maybe he’d send them to the Holmes, they could sore them away. He picked up the box of clothing and turned around, only to drop it immediately, his heart hammering into his ribcage. Oliver stood facing away from him, shrugging on Sherlock’s Belstaff. It touched the floor, and his fingers only barely reached out of the sleeves, but he looked down at himself, stretching out his arms.

John picked up his box and spun around, willing for his heart to stop pounding. He shut his eyes and swallowed thickly. Oliver didn’t much resemble his father, but turned around, wearing  _ that _ coat and with his dark curls - John felt like he couldn’t breathe for a moment. He heard Oliver turn around, so John slowly did too.

“He wore this in all the pictures,” Oliver said. He died in that coat.

John didn’t answer him, and Oliver put the coat away.

When they were done, two boxes found a home in the back of John’s closet, packed with things his heart said to hold onto, but he couldn’t do anything with. Mycroft would be by later in the week to go through some of the things, and they had another box to bring to the Holmes’ house. Other things like books made their way back up into the sitting room or kitchen. The skull sat on the mantel again, staring at John everytime he walked past it. The Belstaff and scarf resided in the bottom of one of the boxes in John’s closet, next to the microscope. After Mycroft went through the things, the rest would be given away.

A part of John selfishly said  _ no, I want to keep these _ , but he had no use for all the beakers and petri dishes, or the books written in German or Chinese. So he let go, and looked forward.

Then somewhat suddenly, time (as it tended to do) passed.

Days filled with rain rather than sun. John went to work. Oliver tutored Emily. The first day of school approached Oliver, and he didn’t seem upset about it, he looked rather eager. John stopped going to therapy, he didn’t need it anymore. Some days he felt worse than others, but he found ways to manage that, ways to distract himself and he knew he’d be okay.

Oliver finished the rubik’s cube, and John bought him the next hardest one he could find, which was shaped like a three dimensional hexagon. Oliver stared at it with big eyes and didn’t start in on it for a few days, saying he didn’t think he’d be able to finish this one. John said he had full faith Oliver would.

Summer came to an end, and fall was overcast and windy. John couldn’t even fathom the fact that Oliver has lived with him for a year now, officially. He couldn’t imagine life without the boy. Oliver had changed so much from the timid and lost boy that had been thrust into his life - it felt like yesterday, but so much had happened it didn’t feel real. He worried that one day he would wake up and everything would fall apart again, and he’d have to start from the dust, piecing his life back together.

But this time… he had family with him.

* * *

Oliver started school on a warm August day, a refreshing change from the rain and wind they had the past few days. He looked eager, straightening his shirt and running his fingers through his hair. Hopefully this year would be better than last year. Oliver looked optimistic, and he said the astronomy club would start up in a week.

“Want breakfast?” John asked, stepping around Oliver towards the fridge while the boy moved from the table to the sink. 

“I’m okay,” Oliver said, filling a glass and chugging it down.

John set the milk on the counter and reached over Oliver for a mug, “You’re not leaving without eating.”

Oliver ducked under his arm and spun around the table, grabbing his phone. “I can get something from Speedy’s.”

John poured his coffee and added milk. “Do you have money?”

“Yup,” Oliver nodded, digging through his bag. He looked up, “Have you seen my -”

John tossed him his rubik’s cube, and he caught it, then dropped it into his bag. Oliver zipped it up and pulled it over his shoulders, then put his headphones around his neck. He looked down to make sure he hadn’t forgot anything.

“All right,” he looked satisfied. “I’m off.”

“Watch the traffic, please,” John warned, watching him walk through the door. Just like the first time, John listened to him walk down the stairs, then walked over to the window to make sure he bought something to eat. He still worried - a lot, but he trusted Oliver.

Work felt like it dragged on for hours that day. They had a new receptionist whose unorganized way of organizing caused him to fall with the bulk of the patients, while the doctor across the hall had a total of two the whole day. It didn’t help that every time he walked by her she turned into a nervous wreck and he couldn’t be quite sure why. Regardless, he just wanted to go home. The surgery felt so… boring again. That scared him.

* * *

When he did get home, he collapsed onto the couch and sighed, wondering where the sudden tiredness had come from. Today had just been a bad day, John decided. It happened sometimes. He hoped Oliver had a better day, but when the boy came home an hour later John could tell by the way he walked up the stairs and the clicking of his rubik’s cube that something happened.

Oliver stepped through the doorway, with his headphones on - that meant he didn’t want to talk. Without looking up from his rubik’s cube, he dropped his bag and toed of his shoes. He stared towards the kitchen to go to his room, but John stood up and pulled his headphones off.

“Talk.”

Oliver turned around and glared at him. “I don’t want to.”

John raised an eyebrow. “If you want to go sulk in your room, fine, but I’m keeping these,” He waved Oliver’s headphones.

Oliver groaned and literally  _ stomped his foot _ . Like a toddler. “Fine! _ Cette stupide fille, _ Emily - she’s in my school now because her grades got better so she could transfer for better academics or -  _ ou quelque chose _ \- something like that. Ugh just she’s awful!”

John sighed, “Oliver, really, is she that bad?”

Oliver looked at him incredulously. “Of course she is! She keeps hanging around me like we’re friends and we aren’t! She’s so annoying, and I have to keep tutoring her because she wants to stay in the school, and obviously I can’t say no, because it’s a good school. I don’t want it to be my fault if she gets kicked out, so I don’t really have a choice.”

Something in the back of John’s mind found it hilarious that the girl obviously didn’t need academic help anymore but still asked Oliver anyways. Oliver didn’t even seem to realize that. John says, “Have you considered that maybe she  _ wants _ to be your friend?”

Oliver’s nose crinkled and he sneered. “Why would she want to be my friend?”

John didn’t say anything for a moment, letting a sad feeling settle into his stomach and wondering how low Oliver must think of himself to say something like that. “Why wouldn’t she?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m a little awkward, if you haven’t noticed,” Olive snapped. “People think I’m weird because I don’t talk to anyone at school.”

“It’d be good for you to have friends,” John argued. “You’re so against that idea, Ollie, but you’re such a good person, people would be lucky to be your friend.”

Oliver crossed his arms and looked away, pouting. “It’s not that easy.”

John sighed, then reached up and brushed Oliver’s hair away from his eyes. “I know,” he said. “You should try.”

It took a moment, but Oliver deflated a little. “All right, but don’t expect me to suddenly have a posse.” 

John just smiled and shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this being short, I'm going through some stuff in my real life and it's affecting my motivation with this story. Don't worry though, I refuse to give up on this one, and for sure will finish.
> 
> Here's the french translations:  
> "Cette stupide fille" means "that stupid girl"  
> "ou quelque chose" means "or something"


	13. One Year

Anna, the new receptionist, asked John on a date.

He said yes, but it he felt like he was doing something wrong when he did. Anna came off as friendly enough, even if she couldn’t keep her work organized and talked louder than she needed. John sat with her for lunch at a busy sandwich shop, where the friendly murmur of people somewhat settled the suspicious anxiety rising in John’s stomach.

Anna talked about her last job as a barista and a bit about her hobbies and John politely nodded along, but found her to be… boring. He knows she’s a nice girl, pretty enough, but she just seemed so… average. John couldn’t figure out why something like that stood out to him suddenly. Average was good, right? John knows he’s average, so why did it bother him if Anna was?

“Do you have any family nearby, John?” She asked, and it took him a moment to even realize. She leaned forward, unnecessarily presenting her cleavage to the whole restaurant. John wanted to go home.

“Ah…” John leaned back. “My sister lives over in Luton, but that’s about it. Though I live with my… I take care of a kid; Oliver.”

Anna frowned, her finger pausing where she twirled her hair. “You have a son?”

“Well - no. I’m his guardian, since no one else can take care of him,” John realized how strange his situation sounded and didn’t really want to explain it.

Anna’s frown didn’t leave her face and she tilted her head. “Hm, but he’s sort of like your’s, right?”

John frowned. “I - I guess.”

Their ‘date’ ended quickly after that. Apparently, Anna didn’t like the idea of John having a kid. John didn’t know why, but he also really didn’t care. He regretted even accepting the invitation to go out, and had no idea why he decided to. He’s glad it’s over, regardless. Everything about going out with her felt wrong, like he shouldn’t be doing it. Something in his stomach told him not to, and he just left confused and with a headache.

John came home late that night, and Oliver had beat him there. Because of John’s extended lunch break, he had to make up an hour at the surgery, meaning he got home only a just before Oliver was supposed to help Emily with her studies.

“How did it go?” Oliver asked, not looking up.

“It went horribly. Don’t let me do something like that again.”

Oliver laughed, and went back to drawing, while John went into the kitchen, hoping they had enough to make dinner later. He hadn’t gone to the shop for food in two weeks, so they didn’t have much to cook for meals.

The ringer buzzed and Oliver sighed, closed his notebook and went down to let Emily in. John stayed out of the way, while they went about what they usually did. John planned on writing about the failure of a day he had, and the odd feeling he had in his stomach the whole time. Maybe getting it out could help him sort through his conflicting emotions. He brought his laptop to the desk in the living room, rolling his eyes when the teenagers already started snapping at each other.

He turned on the telly for background noise, then opened up the document he had been writing in for almost a year. John knew none of it would ever be posted onto his blog. That was a thing of the past, and he talked about so many personal things - his life with Oliver, those months after Sherlock’s death, thoughts he had on bad days, his confusion - all of it needed to stay private. Someday he might just delete all of it. Not any day soon, but in the future when he didn’t need to write to think.

About half an hour later, John looked up and rubbed his eyes and the back of his neck. The bickering from the kitchen had stopped a while ago, and John leaned forward to look through the doorway. Oliver had bent forward to lean over his paper, his hair falling over his face and his pencil aggressively darting around the paper. Emily wasn’t looking at her work, but instead her pencil hung loose in her grip and she watched Oliver, her eyes wide and mouth dropped open a bit - like she just realized something. Then her mouth snapped shut and she tilted her head to the side a bit, while a small, fond smile settled on her face.

It clicked for John and he smiled, realizing she loved that boy.

“Why aren’t you working?” Oliver snapped, looking up.

Emily’s face changed in the blink of an eye, and she scowled at him. “Your stupid hair is in the way, and I can’t see what you’re doing.”

Then the arguing came back, but John knew what stood behind it.

* * *

Oliver’s been with John for over a year, and his fifteenth birthday approached faster than John had time to prepare for. He had an idea a while back, to maybe get Oliver guitar lessons. He listened to music so often, he definitely pretended to play an imaginary guitar before and John didn’t think he knew how to play anything. It might be another way for him to make friends, too.

John hadn’t entirely decided yet, and the Saturday a week before Oliver’s birthday, John asked about it. “Is there anything thing you’d like for your birthday?”

They sat across from each other, in the armchairs. Oliver had his legs crossed and up on the cushion, his rubik’s cube in his lap. “Um…” he looked hesitant, reaching up to twist his hair between two fingers.

“Your grandparents are having us over next weekend, as well,” John reminded him.

Oliver nodded, “I - kind of have an idea… but… I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about price, if it’s something expensive,” John assured. For Oliver, if something fell out of his price range, he knew Mycroft would help out. Sometimes John felt guilty about it, but after a year of Mycroft covering anything John couldn’t for the boy, he didn’t anymore.

“No, it’s just…” Oliver fidgeted with the hems of his sleeves and looked away. John knew the sign that he had something on his mind.

“Oliver?” John asked.

“I just… don’t know if - if you’ll be okay with it.”

John frowned.

“ _Pourquoi est-ce si difficile_ ,” Oliver mumbled, then took a deep breath. “I want - will you… adopt me?”

The flat fell still, and the world rushed around them.

“You… want that?” John asked, and it felt like someone else controlled his mouth.

“Only - only if - if you do!” Oliver stuttered out, looking embarrassed and panicked.

Of course he did. Without a doubt, he wanted to - John felt his heart pound and he swallowed thickly. “Yes - Oliver of course I want to,” he leaned forward in his chair. “Are you - are you sure?”

Oliver nodded, and looked away again. He mumbled, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he looked up, this tips of his ears red. “I’ve lived here for a year, and - and it’s not like I’m going back to the estate. So, I just - I guess, I like it here. A lot, and you. You’re the only… p-person who really… understands me.”

John listened intently, fidgeting with his hands.

Oliver went back to messing with the fidget cube, his eyes still trained on the floor, his face red. “I guess I want, um.” He audibly swallowed. “I want to be able to say I ha-have a dad. And… you - you’re only person I’ve ever thought of as one. If - if you don’t want to, that’s okay! But… I want you to know.”

“Oliver.” John reached out and tapped Oliver’s chin, so he looked up. John smiled. “Of course I want to adopt you. Nothing would make me happier than to call you my own.”

“Really?” Oliver’s head lifted and a smile started to creep across his face. “You - you’re not just saying that because I want it? Because if -”

John shook his head, “No - I want to. I really do, Ollie, don’t worry.”

A grin threatened to split Oliver’s face, “Thank you, thank you so much, John.”

* * *

The next day, before Oliver came home from his club, John called Mycroft first. He planned on calling Mr and Mrs Holmes after, because of course the matter needed to be discussed with them, but first he wanted to ask Mycroft how hard it would be.

“Good afternoon, John,” Mycroft greeted.

“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” John said. “I just have… a question. Er - a theoretical one.”

Mycroft made an amused noise. “I’m listening.”

“Well, _theoretically_ , how difficult would it be to-” he took a breath. “to adopt Oliver?”

Mycroft didn’t answer for a moment, and worry twisted John’s gut. What if any of the Holmes didn’t want him to legally have Oliver? Before John could let his mind spiral too much, Mycroft spoke, his voice somewhat fond. “Did he finally ask you?”

“Wh- you knew?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, clearing his voice. “Oliver called me, a few weeks ago, and told me that he wanted you to adopt him.”

John chewed his lip. “What do you think?”

“I encouraged the idea,” he said. “Oliver’s happy in London, and he wants to stay with you. I doubt he’ll return to the estate permanently, unless you have him leave - with I also doubt will happen.”

“No, no, I would never make him leave.”

“As I expected,” Mycroft said, and John could practically hear the aristocratic nod he gave when he was right about something. “I told him to ask you, I’m a bit surprised it took this long for him to work up the courage. You mightn’t be surprised to hear my parents have suggested it in the past as well.”

“What will it take?” John asked, more confident this time. How long had Oliver been wanting to asked this? Why didn’t John consider it before? It just made sense to adopt Oliver, and to make everything official like that.

“Generally, it can take years to adopt a child, but Oliver’s already been with you over a year. You have direct correlation with his legal guardians, and I work in the government,” Mycroft explained. “If you’re truly serious about it, I can go about switching his guardianship to you without much of a hassle. It may take a month or two to get all the paperwork.”

“So… It can happen? You’ll help?”

“Yes, I’ll help,” Mycroft said. “It’d do you well to call my parents, talk to them about it. I know they’ve wanted this for a while and were hesitant about your reaction.”

“All right,” John worried his lip between his teeth. “Thank you Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “Take care.”

“You too,” John said, then the phone clicked off. He let out a shaky breath. This was happening. John’s going to adopt Oliver. He dialled the number for the Holmes estate, and listened to it ring, four times before it answered.

“Hello, John!” Violet Holmes greeted warmly.

“Afternoon, Violet,” John smiled, her motherly voice immediately putting him to ease. “How have you been?”

“Oh, I’m well. Sigar and I just spent a week in Venice, such a quaint little place,” she said. “You and Oliver are still coming up for his birthday, right?”

“Yes, we are,” John chuckled.

“Is Oliver bringing any friends?”

“Ah - I can’t say he is,” John said. “I think he’s still having a bit of trouble with making friends.”

Violet sighed. “That boy.”

“I actually have something I’d like to talk to you about,” John started. “See, I’ve just been on the phone with Mycroft, because Oliver asked me for something rather important.”

“Oh! Oliver asked you to adopt him didn’t he?” Violet interrupted, excitement bleeding into her voice. “I knew it would only be a matter of time, I’m so glad. We didn’t want to ask you right out, because it’s always been up to Oliver first, and of course we hoped you would agree - oh, Sigar come here, listen.”

John chuckled, listening to her. The phone beeped and Violet said she put him on the speaker so both of the could talk.

“Yes, well, I’d love to adopt Oliver. As long as everyone’s all right with it, I know how big this is, and what it means for everyone,” John explained, feeling the nervousness bleed back into his gut.

The three spoke on the phone for close to half an hour, talking about all the details and some other things. Violet and Sigar wanted John to adopt Oliver, because they wanted him to be secured with someone, just in case. They told him originally they thought Oliver would end up somewhere else, after John took care of him for a few months, but after seeing how well he did living with John, they changed their plans.

“We’ll gladly sign the papers,” Sigar told him. “It will mostly be a private affair, and done quicker than a normal adoption would happen.”

John thanked them, and said he wanted to keep the progress a surprise to Oliver, which Violet seemed excited about. Oliver was due home any minute though, so they wrapped up the phone call and John ended it feeling a light emotion in his chest.

* * *

Mrs Hudson came up to their flat with cupcakes before they left for the Holmes estate the day before Oliver’s birthday. She wished him a happy birthday and gave him a tight hug, leaving him flustered and looking embarrassed, but John knew he loved how doting she acted towards him.

When Oliver went into his room to finished packing up his overnight bag, John pulled Mrs Hudson into the sitting room and told her he had papers to adopt Oliver that he planned on getting all the signatures for tomorrow. She actually _screeched_ , pulling John into a hug and all but jumping up and down, saying how happy she was that it would be official.

They arrived at the Holmes estate later on, and had dinner with Violet and Sigar, who told them Mycroft would be visiting a few hours the next day.

John paid for those guitar lessons and the next day, Oliver’s birthday, gave him the rental guitar he purchased. His grandparents had a few gifts for him, as did Mycroft. Before they left for home, though, John put a folder on the table in front of everyone. Of course Mycroft already knew of it’s contents, as he gave it to John a few days prior. Sigar must have figured it out, and Violet looked from the folder of papers to John, her face lighting up.

“You just need the signatures?” She asked.

“To get everything started, yes,” Mycroft answered for him. “It may be a long process.”

Oliver, who looked confused up to this point, shot his head up and looked from Mycroft to John with wide eyes. “Are those-” he didn’t finish his sentence, too busy lunging across the table to grab the folder and throw it open. The folder contained all the information to kick the adoption into gear.

A grin crept along Oliver’s face while his eyes skimmed the paper. “You - you’re actually are doing it?”

“Yes,” John smiled at him. Oliver looked to his grandparents, who wore the same encouraging smiles, then to his uncle. “You’re helping?”

“I’m making the process faster, yes,” Mycroft nodded.

The smile took over Oliver’s face, and he ecstatically asked for all the details he could get on the process. John smiled and watched while Mycroft explained some of the legalities, and Sigar and Violet told them they were so glad they could depend on someone they trusted to look after Oliver.

* * *

Their lives seem to move in fragments of moments and milestones. Some days passed in a blur, and John wondered if they even ever happened, while others dragged out with stretches of boring or mundane. But John loved every moment he lived, and he can’t remember feeling like that ever before.

Oliver was doing amazing in school, finally finding a way to balance the subjects he hates and the ones he likes. He grew like a weed, John noticed, when they had to go out and get him new clothes. He’d grown to almost John’s height already, and he hoped Oliver would slow down before he passed John. Knowing the Holmes’ genetics, though, it was inevitable.

Oliver looked so _happy_. Gone went the shy, angry boy that was dumped into John’s life, and a whole new person emerged that John watched grow with captivation. Oliver kept his grades up, told John about his club, went to his guitar lessons on Wednesdays after astronomy and tutored Emily on Fridays.

Sherlock’s violin sat on top of John’s dresser, collecting dust and fading into the background. The skull found it’s home on a shelf in Oliver’s room eventually, and the boxes in the back of John’s closet became forgotten. Oliver inhabited the space around them, and often sat in the chair across from John. It was just ‘the other armchair’ now. John opened the fridge and cabinet without bracing himself for mold or body parts. He stopped seeing phantom movements of a coat or an extra pair of expensive shoes.

He stopping thinking about Sherlock.

A light snow had started to fall in mid November. John invited Greg over for tea on a Saturday afternoon, just for a chat since the coffee shop they usually met at had been closed for renovations. Greg said hello to Oliver and ruffled his hair. They laughed and talked, shouting at the telly and talking about ridiculous people at their respective works. John told him that he’s working on adopting Oliver, and Greg’s mouth dropped open, then he grinned and squeezed John’s shoulder.

A few days after that, Oliver rushed home after his club and guitar lessons, pounding up the stairs. John looked up, worried something had happened, but a grin graced Oliver’s face instead.

“All right?” John asked.

Oliver nodded vigorously, panting from his rush to get home. “There’s - there’s a penumbral lunar eclipse in twenty minutes, we could see it from the park! The moon changes color, will you come with me?”

John smiled, “Sure, let’s go. Grab a warmer coat though, it looks like it might snow again.”

Oliver’s face lit up and he ran into his room. John put on his own coat, and they left the flat a few minutes later. Oliver kept running ahead and then back, eager to get to the park and John watched his childish excitement fondly. They found a place under a large pine tree in the park, shielded from the dusting of snow falling from the sky and watched the moon turn a glowing orange.

* * *

Christmas swept upon them unexpectedly, and they were back at the Holmes estate for the day. They had an extravagant lunch and exchanged gifts and laughs. Oliver was talkative most of the day, which used to be unusual for him, but now happened often. Mycroft couldn’t make it, but he sent something for everyone, and by the end of the day Oliver had fallen asleep on one of the sofas.

They weren’t staying the night, because Violet and Sigar had a plane to catch headed for Paris at dawn. After a few minutes of exchanging hushed words, not to wake Oliver, Violet pulled John into a hug and Sigar shook his hand in farewell.

John leaned over Oliver and picked him up, his head lolling against John’s shoulder and his arm hanging. The Holmes followed him out to the rental car and helped him settle Oliver into the backseat before he got into the front and waved goodbye.

The next day, they had a little post-Christmas with the fire roaring and some leftovers from lunch at the estate. Oliver ran into his room, saying he had something for John that wasn’t ready the day before. He walked back out a moment later, looking a little embarrassed, but then held out a small canvas with a painting on it. John took it and stared in awe.

In full color, it depicted the beach they went to that summer, the night sky glowing off the dark blue water and the stars lighting up the surface. The painting looked like it came from the perspective of the cliffs above the beach. Two tiny shadows sat on the beach by water, who John could only assume to be Oliver and himself.

“This is incredible,” John told him.

Oliver smiled. “It was still drying yesterday. Took me almost five times to do it right, I have a couple of messed-up canvases hidden under my bed.”

“It’s still beautiful,” John assured. “I’ll buy a frame for it and we can put it up somewhere.”

Oliver nodded, that wonderful smile stretching across his face again.

Mrs Hudson invited them down for dinner, and they sat and talked with her for almost two hours. She asked how Oliver’s guitar lessons were going, and Oliver said well. John said he learned fast - he could hear Oliver trying to play quietly in his room, and John knew he already made amazing progress.

When they went back up to their flat, Oliver yawned and said he wanted to go to bed a bit early.

“Hang on,” John said. “I have something else for you.”

Oliver’s brow drew together as he turned to look at John.

“Sit down,” John chuckled, gesturing to the armchair.

Oliver did, crossing his legs on the seat and rubbing his eyes with another yawn. John sat across from him in his own chair, then reached under it and pulled something out. He held out the plain, unmarked folder and Oliver took it in confusion, looking from it and up to John.

“You know what this is,” John said.

It took a moment, then Oliver looked back down with wide eyes, and flipped it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) I hope you guys enjoyed this one.
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts in the comments!
> 
>  
> 
> I think Oliver only said one thing in French this chapter:
> 
> "Pourquoi est-ce si difficile" means "Why is it so difficult"


	14. Party

Oliver looked down at the unmarked folder with wide eyes, and flipped it open with shaking fingers. John watched his face as he stared down at the papers, the adoption certificate sitting delicately on top, and Oliver’s name -  _ Oliver Scott Watson _ \- gazing up at him in bold letters.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Oliver dropped the folder to the floor and lurched over to John, hugging him tightly. John laughed and hugged him back, putting a hand on the back of his head. Oliver laughed too, and his voice cracked when he said, “Thank you, thank you so much.”

John rocked forward and gently pushed at Oliver’s shoulders, so he kneeled on the floor in front of the chair. “Are you happy?”

Oliver nodded, grinning while his dark hair bounced around his face. “Yes! Yes, I am!” He said, then jumped up and hugged John again. John stood up with a grin, and pressed his cheek against Oliver’s hair. He’d never felt so happy, and he’d never be more happy than in this moment, with the snow falling out the window, the fire crackling next to them, and holding his boy in his arms.

* * *

Greg invited them to a New Years party at some fancy venue. Most of NSY would be attending, and Greg told him to invite whoever he wanted. Mrs Hudson had went out of town to visit someone, so John invited Harry and her girlfriend, hoping to finally meet her.

“Do you have something to wear?” John asked Oliver, the night of the party.

Oliver gave him a look. “Have you met my family?”

“Good point,” John said. “We’re leaving soon, so be ready. Harry and her date will be here soon, too.”

John, as anyone would expect, wore a maroon jumper and pressed jeans, then ran his fingers through his hair a few times to brush it back. He’d need a haircut soon, it’d gotten long. Oliver had dressed in a soft blue button down that complimented his eyes, and black jeans. Just as John pulled out his phone to call Harry, the ringer sounded downstairs.

“Coat,”John reminded Oliver, who pouted before putting it on. They hustled down the stairs and John opened the door, greeting Harry with a hug. “You look lovely,” John complimented her. Her red dress matched her lipstick, and her blonde hair looked full and gently curled.

Harry smiled at him while she stepped into the hall, brushing the snow off her fur-lined leather jacket and gesturing to her date. “Johnny, this is Gen. Gen, I’ve told you about my brother,” she introduced.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Genevieve said, shaking John’s hand. She had tan skin, vibrant red hair, with a charming smile and a northern accent. 

“Pleasure’s mine,” John smiled back. He put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder and pulled him forward. “And this is Oliver.”

“Hello, Oliver,” Gen said, tilting her head and shaking his hand. Harry greeted him with a ruffle of his hair, leaving him flustered and trying to fix it.

“I’m so glad you two have finally met. You can see what a babe I scored,” Harry said with a sly grin, pulling Gen toward her by the waist. John laughed while Gen swatted Harry away and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, may I use your bathroom before we leave?” Gen asked. John nodded and pointed up the stairs, telling her it’s to the left and the first door in the hallway.

Harry had taken pity on Oliver’s hair and helped him fix it so it wasn’t shooting up in every direction any more. Oliver look vaguely annoyed, but smiled regardless.

“So, Harry…” John said with a small smile, and she looked at him. “You should probably know that I’ve adopted Oliver.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, her mouth dropped open a bit. Then she looked down at Oliver, her hand still on his shoulder, then back to John with a grin. “Really?” She asked, eyebrows raised. “God, why didn’t you tell me sooner!” Harry pulled Oliver towards her in a hug and he laughed.

“Well, Ollie,” Harry said, holding him at arm’s length. “Now you’ve got the coolest aunt in the world, and can brag about that to all your friends.”

Oliver smiled, flustered but loving the attention. Gen came back down the stairs a moment later, and Harry took her hand, saying that now she’s an aunt lucky enough to miss out on the nappy changing and tantrums. They chatted a bit more, before John noticed the time and figure they should leave.

“We better get moving if we don’t want to be the last ones showing up,” John said, opening the door. Everyone moved outside, tucking their chins to their chests against the cold until they caught a cab to fit all four of them.

The venue was busy, and John recognized a lot of people in passing, but there were plenty he didn’t know. Greg spotted them and made his way through the crowd. “John! I thought you wouldn’t make it, I’m glad you’re here,” he said, giving John a one-armed hug. “Good to see you too, Oliver,” he pat the boy’s shoulder.

“Looks pretty lively in here,” John said, looking around. “Oh, you’ve already met Harry of course, but this is her girlfriend, Gen.”

“Nice to meet you,” Gen smiled and they shook hands.

Harry must have recognized someone, and waved, then touched John’s shoulder and said she’d be around. He nodded and waved her off.

“Listen,” Greg lowered his voice but still talked loud enough to hear over the music. “You’ll probably see some faces you know. Some are friendly, some not so much, but don’t pay them too much attention.  Enjoy yourself! Drinks are paid for and there’s food over that way.”

John nodded with a laugh, “I’ll probably find someone here to talk to.”

“Mycroft is here somewhere, and I invited Molly but I haven’t seen her yet. I think I saw Stamford over by the bar a few minutes ago, too. But, mingle and have fun!” Greg squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be around if you need anything.” Then he disappeared into the crowd.

John put his hand on Oliver’s back - the boy looked a little overwhelmed. John raised an eyebrow and Oliver took a breath then nodded. “You can walk around if you want, I’m sure there’s others your age here somewhere,” John said over the music.

“I’ll just stay with you for now.”

John nodded, and joined the crowd, looking for anyone he might recognize, while Oliver stuck close behind. Lots of people from NSY and plenty of others were there, laughing and dancing. He admired Harry when she walked to the bar and ordered a coke, not even sparing a glance at the alcohal while she flirted with Gen. She seemed to be having fun, easily joining a conversation with the group of people next to her.

A woman John knew in passing - secretary at NSY, maybe? He couldn’t remember - came up to him and started chatting about something irrelevant. He nodded politely while he tried to remember her name or where he’d seen her before, but lost interest as soon as she started biting her lip more than necessary and leaning forward until her breasts almost popped out. He moved away from her, pretending to be pulled into the crowd and gave Oliver a look when he started snickering.

He did spot Mycroft, looking bored and standing by the glass doors to the patio, and waved to him. John wondered if Mycroft knew the host. John didn’t even know the host, but it had to be someone from the Yard. Oliver tugged John’s sleeve, letting John know he was going over to talk to Mycroft. John found a seat at the bar and ordered a water. It was cold outside, but the bodies in here made it stuffy. John ran his hand over his hair again and spun around to look around the room.

Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned, his heart jolting for a second.

“Hey,” Donovan said awkwardly, sliding up onto the stool next to him. “It’s… been a while.”

A year and a half. “Er, hi,” John said, feeling forced. “How - how are you doing?”

Donovan worried her lip between white teeth. “I’m… all right, I guess. And you, John?”

John took a sip of his water. “Fine. I’m doing good, actually.”

She looked a little surprised, but nodded. They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments, then Donovan leaned forward and waved someone from the crowd. “Oi! Philip!”

John jerked his head up, and decided he’d rather be anywhere else when Anderson pulled himself from the crowd. But the man looked like he’d gone absolutely mad, his whole attire a mess, hair long and face unshaved.

“John!” Anderson looked him over with raised eyebrows. “You’re - you look well.”

“I am… you?”

Anderson nodded. “Yup. Yep. Everything’s - good. It’s, y’know. Good. Not bad.”

Donovan sort of sighed. Another awkward moment passed while Anderson rocked on his feet and John tapped on his glass. None of them knew what to say, they weren’t exactly on the greatest terms a year and a half ago. Now could be… different, though, John realized. It didn’t have to be bad between the three of them.

Movement on the other side of him caught John’s eye and Oliver strolled up, looking wearily between Donovan and Anderson. Anderson turned to look at the new person, and his eyes shot open wide. “- the fuck?”

Donovan looked and choked on her beer, then started coughing.

“Er-” Oliver took a step away, somewhat hiding behind John.

“Um,” John said, when Donovan finally stopped coughing and Anderson didn’t look like he would pass out. “This is Oliver. I adopted him - from, from Sherlock.”

Donovan stared at John, then looked between them a few times, nodded and downed the rest of her beer. She set it on the bar, jumped off the stool and said, “I won’t bother you with the questions,” then shuffled away, pulling Anderson along behind her.

“What was that about?” Oliver asked, leaning against the bar.

John shook his head. He didn’t even know, but he felt glad he didn’t have to explain their weird situation to the two. “Don’t worry about it, I doubt you’ll see them again for a while.”

Oliver hopped up onto the bar stool next to John and spun it lightly from side to side.

“John!” Someone called. John turned in search of the voice, then smiled when he saw Molly walking over. She looked wonderful in a casual purple dress, her hair pinned back off her face. John stepped off the stool and gave her a quick hug. 

“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said, then turned to Oliver and ruffled his hair. “Hello, Oliver.”

Oliver’s face turned red and he grinned at her. “Hi.”

John chuckled, “Did you come with anyone?”

“I’m here with my boyfriend and sister,” Molly said. Oliver pouted, and Molly smiled at him. “Emily is around here somewhere too, I’m sure.”

Oliver groaned.

Molly looked around, then waved over a handsome blonde with glasses. “Then is David - David, this is John and Oliver.”

“Nice to meet you,” David said, shaking John’s hand. He looked to Oliver, who suddenly became very interested in the hem of his shirt, ignoring David completely.

John rolled his eyes and pinched Oliver’s elbow. “Why don’t you go look for Emily, hm?”

Oliver gave John an ‘are you kidding me?’ sort of look, and John raised an eyebrow. Oliver sighed and slid off the chair, walking away with another pout.

Somehow, Greg joined their conversation. It felt a bit surreal, but John had a good time, laughing and talking about whatever they wanted. At some point, and Donovan appeared again. Greg got Molly to talk a bit about how she and David met (at a park, he bumped into her and she spilt her coffee all over him) which they all thought was incredibly cliche, but very  _ Molly _ .

“What about you, Greg, anyone new in your life?” John teased. 

Greg looked instantly flustered, shaking his head and trying not to smile while everyone _ooooh’ed_.   
“Now you’ve got to tell us!” Molly smiled, nudging Greg with her shoulder.

“No, no, I can’t,” Greg insisted. “It’s not anything serious - really.”

John pulled himself away from the conversation a little while after that to look for Harry and Gen, to make sure they were having a good time. On his search, he spotted Oliver sitting on the edge of a table at the back of the room, swinging his legs next to Emily, who was leaning against the table with her arms crossed. They looked like they were arguing half-heartedly over something. John just rolled his eyes and found Harry and Gen by the open patio door. He welcomed the cool air blowing in, and tapped Harry’s arm.

“Enjoying yourselves?” He asked.

They talked for awhile, and he noticed more people showing up. The venue became crowded, but people seemed to be filtering in and out. John didn’t see Oliver or Emily at that table anymore, and he figure they found somewhere else to sit. He knew Oliver wasn’t the biggest fan of crowds. They had a little more than an hour left until midnight, and John didn’t think he’d be staying much longer than that.

Gen pulled Harry onto the floor to dance and Molly was with a group of her friends. John, odd enough, ended up talking to Molly’s boyfriend by the door for a while.

* * *

Later into the night while he was talking to a few people he knew from Bart’s, someone tugged his sleeve and he turned to see Emily, fidgeting with her hands and looking nervous.

“All right?” John asked, then looked behind her. “Where’s Oliver?”

“I think he - he’s having a panic attack,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Where is he?”

Emily pointed towards the back of the venue. “In the bathroom.”

John rushed away from the group and found the bathroom, Emily standing close behind and looking a little lost. John knocked on the door and put his ear closer to listen. “Oliver? I’m coming in, all right?”

“O-okay,” he heard from inside. 

John pushed the door open and motioned for Emily to stay outside. Oliver sat on the tile floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, his face hidden. John could hear him struggling to inhale, his choked sobs strangling the breath from him. John knelt down, trying not to cringe at being on the floor in a public restroom. He uncurled Oliver’s hands from his hair and pulled the boy forward a bit.

“Deep breath, slowly,” John said. Oliver lifted his head from his knees and sniffed, then tried to inhale, his lungs stuttering at first. “Good,” John said.

It took a few minutes for Oliver to calm down and wipe his eyes.

“What happened?” John asked.

Oliver shrugged a little bit. “I don’t really know. My hands started shaking and my heart pounded too fast I felt like I was being chased by something even though I was just standing there.”

John sighed and brushed Oliver’s hair off his forehead. “Are you better now?”

Oliver nodded, then his eyes flicked to behind John. John turned and saw Emily standing in the doorway, watching them. John looked back at Oliver. “Do you want to leave?”

“No, it’s not even midnight yet,” Oliver frowned, his attention back to John.

“It’s all right if you do.”

Oliver stood up and John did too. “We can stay. I just want to sit out on the patio where it’s cooler.”

“If you’re sure,” John put an arm over Oliver’s shoulder and walked with him until they stood outside in the crisp air. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to take you away from everyone.”

“Oliver…” John sighed.

“I’ll sit with him,” Emily offered.

John looked from her to Oliver, who nodded.

“All right,” John said, “Just find me if you need anything.”

John retreated from the patio when Oliver leaned against the doorway and let out a puff of air while Emily sat on the chair next to him.

Making sure to stay an easy distance from the doors (so Oliver could find him), he joined a conversation with Molly and Harry, while everyone waited for midnight to approach in the next few minutes.

Midnight hit and everyone cheered and laughed, the sounds of clinking glasses filled the air before the music started up again. Everyone seemed renewed with energy, but some people we saying goodbyes and heading out. John figured he would do the same. 

He said goodbye to the few people he had talked to that night, couldn’t find Greg, so sent him a text that he was leaving. Molly gave him a hug and said they should meet for tea again soon, and David shook his hand. He found Harry and Gen sitting at a table in the corner, talking quietly.

“I’m heading home, are you two going to be here for a while?” John asked, leaning forward so they could hear him over the music.

“We’ll probably be heading out in a minute or two,” Harry said. “Gen actually wants to sleep before the sun comes up, can you believe that?”

Gen rolled her eyes and hit Harry’s shoulder.

John laughed. “I better go find Oliver. See you two around, then?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Bye Johnny!”

John waved to both of them, then found Oliver still on the patio. “Ready to go?”

Oliver nodded, waved bye to Emily, and they found their coats then head outside. The music muffled as the door swung shut behind them. John put his arm over Oliver’s shoulders while they walked down the snowy sidewalk. The quiet bliss of night and snow crunching beneath their boots was soothing.

“Did you have fun?” John asked.

“Yeah, I did,” Oliver said, tilting his head. “Beside the panic attack, obviously.

John chucked. “I’m glad.” He breathed out, watching the air cloud and twist into the sky above him. “2013, huh?”

Oliver smiled a little. It’s been a year and a half since Sherlock left them, and over a year since Oliver joined him. His life felt perfect. Nothing could change that. Right?

John squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “Happy New Year, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys haven't noticed, this is marked as the first fic in a series. I know people who write fan fictions into series run the risk of losing readers, but I really hope you guys stay with me.
> 
> I'm planning on it being a trilogy, I guess. This fic is the first one, and there is 16 total chapters.
> 
> The second fic is only 4 chapters long and all four will be posted at the same time (I've already written them).
> 
> The third (and finale) fic I've started writing already, and I'm not sure how long it is going to be yet. If I had to estimate, I'd say between 12 and 15 chapters.
> 
> As I'm already writing the third fic, hopefully buy the time you guys get there I'll be doing two updates a week. Please stick with me, and I love all your support!!


	15. Spring

The last few months of winter flew by, giving way to rain and mud. Most days felt dreary, leaving John tired and Oliver irritable. The sun barely showed, giving the mud no time to dry up. Last spring the weather had been beautiful, so John wasn’t entirely surprised that this year brought back the usual London weather.

Oliver did amazing in school as usual, kept up with his guitar lessons and astronomy club. He didn’t have panic attacks as often anymore, and his rubik’s cube became a game rather than a distraction now, John noticed. He still drew and painted, showing off his art to Mrs Hudson when she would visit and asking for John’s opinions.

John kept busy at the surgery, and doing the occasional errand or chore for Mrs Hudson. Greg had been too busy at NSY to go out recently, but John talked with Harry and her girlfriend more often. Mycroft came over for tea to check in with Oliver’s marks and subtlety inquire if John held up financially. John had gotten used to these kinds of questions over the past year and a half. At first it offended him, but after Oliver shot up a few inches and he had to start buying him new clothing almost monthly, he swallowed his pride and accepted the help.

On the better days, when the weather didn’t feel so heavy, Oliver and him would go on walks around the city. John told Oliver about one of his patients who came in, thinking they were on the brink of death because they had miraculously never caught the flu before. Oliver laughed, and said that there were tons kids in the grade ahead of him that pretended getting a cold was the end of the world and would stay home “sick” for days at a time.

“Oh, there’s also this boy that just moved here from Wales,” Oliver said. “I think he’s trying to be friends with me but I don’t really know why.”

John bumped his shoulder, “Probably because you’re interesting and a good kid?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Emily doesn’t like him. He’s not that bad, I guess. He joined the astronomy club, but he doesn’t know much about it.”

“Well, there’s your chance at being friends,” John encouraged.

“I don’t know…” Oliver shrugged.

Fridays Oliver still brought Emily home after school, even though John knew they stopped tutoring. When John asked about it, Oliver said that he started teaching her astronomy, because her curiosity seemed to overrule her pride. John raised an eyebrow at this, wondering how long Oliver would chose to stay oblivious and didn’t say anything. Whenever she came over John heard them talk about school, and their interests. He just felt glad they argued less, and Oliver seemed to accept that he finally had a friend.

The end of April came, and Violet and Sigar invited them to the estate for a few days. Oliver took off school for that Friday, and John was relieved to get out of the city for a while. The weather was still dreary, but the grounds of the estate were much dryer and clean air felt refreshing.

John had grown to love spending time with the elder Holmes. Violet’s stories from when Oliver or her children were younger entertained John for hours, and their vast library had every genre he could hope to read. He knew Oliver loved Baker Street, but he also knew the boy liked being able to return to his childhood home. In the evening of the second day, John helped Sigar make dinner and Sigar told him Mycroft would be along soon.

The Holmes’ always had such wonderful food in their home. They always brought things back from the trips they frequently went on nowadays, and the food had a unique taste each time John and Oliver visited.

After they ate, Oliver stayed to talk to his grandparents, and Mycroft motioned for John to step into the other room with him.

“There’s a matter I’ve been… reluctant to speak with you about, as I myself don’t know all the details yet,” Mycroft said, tapping his fingers on his umbrella.

John raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “That’s a surprise.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You’re aware that for the majority of the past two years I’ve had people finding and diminishing those working in Moriarty’s web of criminals throughout Asia?”

John’s arms dropped and he felt his whole mood shift into an odd feeling. He nodded.

“I received word a fortnight ago that part of his organization that moved to Germany is being taken down,” Mycroft said. “But it’s not by any of my people.”

“You don’t know who yet? Are you sure it’s Moriarty’s people and not another criminal organization?” John asked, shifting his feet.

“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t sure.”

“Okay,” John chewed his lip. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mycroft sighed, looking down at his hand on the top of his umbrella, then looked back to John. “I know that information on his web is somewhat… important to you. And this is the closest we’ve seen his people to England in two years. I assumed you’d like to know. Should anyone working for his web infiltrate the country again.”

John didn’t respond, his eyes on the floor as the information turned over in his head. 

* * *

Oliver stood with his back against the wall, listening through the open door to his Uncle’s and John’s conversation. He knew if he got caught eavesdropping he’d be in trouble, but he didn’t really  _ mean _ to. He just wanted to find where they went, but the two were in the middle of talking so he just decided to… wait… and listen.

Of course, Oliver knew of Moriarty. Years ago, despite his attempts to hear nothing of Sherlock, it became inevitable that he’d hear the man’s name on the television occasionally, and with it, the name of the criminal mastermind. Recently though, in the past two years, Oliver learned most of what had happened between Sherlock, John and Moriarty. Listening to the news his Uncle gave John, he wondered how John felt about it. Oliver wasn’t sure what to think. The information was good, right? But maybe the issue is  _ who _ is doing it? Logically, probably the German government. A web of criminals likely causing problems in a new country - it had to be.

The conversation stopped, and John didn’t respond to Mycroft. Before someone could step out and catch him, Oliver slunk away and found a book to make himself look busy. A minute later uncle Mycroft and John stepped out of the study. Mycroft had a purposeful stride as usual, and John looked lost in thought so Oliver didn’t bother either of them.

Come morning, the cab they ordered came to pick them up after breakfast. Everything went about as usual, but John seemed quieter, and Oliver knew it had to do with the conversation last night. In the cab, Oliver’s curiosity reasoned with him that fessing up his eavesdropping would be worth finding out what else was going on.

“John?”

“Hm?” John looked up from the window. Oliver twisted his Rubik’s cube a few times.

“I - er, over heard what Uncle told you last night.”

John smirked at him. “I know, I saw you pretending to read when we left the room.”

Oh. Well. He tried to not look suspicious. He forgets how observant John is sometimes. He’s not sure John even  _ realizes _ he’s that observant most of the time, though. His grandparents totally wouldn’t have suspected anything.

“I know you well enough, by now, I should think,” John said, putting his elbow on the windowsill, and leaning his head against his hand. “You know what Mycroft was talking about, then?”

Oliver nodded. He scratched the edge of the plastic cube with his nail. “People are taking down parts of the organization that are close to England. Mycroft doesn’t know who is doing it, though.”

John nodded.

“What does that mean to you?”

“It’s…” John sighed. John had a tick Oliver noticed months ago - when a subject he doesn’t know how to respond to comes up, he worried his lip between his teeth. That’s what he did now, and Oliver wondered if he should have stayed silent, but John spoke anyways. “I guess it means there’s someone out there continuing Sherlock’s work against Moriarty. I want to be… grateful... for that, but I can’t help but feel guilty that it’s not me.”

Oliver’s cube clicked into place, and he looked down at it - solved to the halfway point again. He looked back up at John. “Well, you’re busy raising me.”

John turned to Oliver, raising an eyebrow. He smiled and reached out, messing up Oliver’s hair. “You suck up.”

* * *

Oliver hadn’t thought about Sherlock this much in years. He didn’t know why he suddenly couldn’t stop, it probably had to do with the conversation in the car with John. But for the first time in his life, he wanted to know more about the man. Specifically about Sherlock  _ and _ John, before everything happened two years ago.

During lunch at school Oliver sat at the bench outside he usually occupied and opened the internet on his phone, then looked up the Moriarty case. Not much of it was still online, and the a lot of the files didn’t make sense to him with all the blacked out information. He sighed, and tried a different search, looking to find the police reports from when Sherlock was framed for kidnapping. Everyone knew Sherlock’s name had been cleared a few months after everything happened, but still, next to nothing came up for the case. Oliver didn’t even know what he actually wanted to find.

His phone beeped and a message appeared at the top of the screen from uncle Mycroft:  _ What are you looking for? _ Oliver rolled his eyes and switched the tabs open on his phone, quickly found a file he had saved and changed his IP address, reset his browser and tried again. This time, he remembered that John had kept a blog a few years ago, and wondered what was on it. It had to have been a blog for his therapy, right? He must have written about their cases or daily life if nothing else. John seemed to enjoy writing, from how much he did it at the flat.

Oliver searched for the blog and found it, only to find the mobile site barely working. He made a frustrated noise and shook his phone, like that would help. Then the browser crashed and his phone beeped again, with another message:  _ Changing your internet protocol address doesn’t make it so I can’t see you. _ Oliver messaged him back:  _ I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m just curious. _ Mycroft responded a moment later:  _ Just ask. _

Oliver shoved his phone back in his pocket and frowned, kicking his shoes into the dirt. Why did this suddenly interest him? He never cared about those cases or Sherlock before. Someone dropped their bag into the dirt and plopped on the bench next to him. “What’s up, curly?” Emily asked.

Oliver ignored her and leaned his elbow on his knee, then put his cheek in his hand. There was something… strange that he couldn’t put his finger on, something that had been bothering him since they left the Holmes estate. Something that he’d thought about before, but why couldn’t he remember?

“Geez, you look glum,” Emily said, twisting her finger into one of his curls and letting it spring away. He swatted her hand. “You okay?”

Oliver stood up, distracted. “Yeah, just - thinking,” he said, then walked towards the school. Uncle Mycroft was right, he could ask John. Ask him what? To use the laptop so he could spy on John’s past with Sherlock? Yeah that sounded good.

So when he got home that night, after spending twenty or so minutes in his room trying to sort his thoughts again, he walked into the sitting room, where John lounged on the couch with a book.

“John, can I use your laptop?”

John looked up.“Sure,” he said, then reached towards the coffee table and picked up the computer, holding it out. Oliver took it, feeling like he was doing something wrong. He wasn’t, right? Anyone could read the blog, it was online.

“What for?” John asked.

Oliver paused. Should he lie? Why would he lie? What was he thinking? “I, um… wanted to read your old blog. If - if that’s okay?” Great! He sounded suspicious! Now John’s going to say no, and the weird feeling in his gut would eat away at him until he died.

* * *

“I, um… wanted to read your blog. If - if that’s okay?” Oliver asked nervously.

John hesitated, his chest turning cold. Why would Oliver want to read his blog out of the blue like that? “Um. All right. Go ahead.”

Oliver nodded and shuffled into the kitchen. John heard him pull out a chair and sit down at the table, the laptop clicking open. John tried to ease back into reading but he found himself a bit lost and unable to focus. He hadn’t thought about that blog in a long time, he couldn’t even remember the last thing he posted.

Half an hour later, after John had finally put down the book and started tidying up instead, Oliver broke the silence.

“Oh God.”

John frowned and looked through the doorway. “What is it?”

Oliver stared at the screen with big eyes, then turned his head to look at John, absolutely horrified at something he must have read. John’s descriptions of murders could be detailed sometimes, but there’s nothing  _ that _ graphic in there.

“What’s wrong?” John asked again.

“You - you -” Oliver audibly swallowed and looked back at the laptop, his face changing into something bleak and rueful. He looked like he might be actually ill. He turned to John again, his eyebrows pulling together. “You  _ loved _ him.”

John’s heart plummet towards his feet.

Oliver looked between him and the laptop again. “You  _ loved _ him, and - and he didn’t he  _ know _ . He didn’t know and he - he just  _ left you _ . No wonder you-” Oliver swallowed again. “Why didn’t you ever say-”

“Oliver.” John stopped him, then stepped forward and closed the laptop. His throat felt dry and his voice didn’t sound like his own. “I can’t talk to you about this.”

John had never used those words to describe Sherlock before.  _ Never _ . Not once in any of his writing, or to any of his friends or family. That word locked itself deep in John’s soul, and maybe he pretended he didn’t know for a long time and maybe he pretended not to know he didn’t know. Maybe, even after two years, he wouldn’t let his mind go there because it  _ scared _ him and it was too late anyways - and if it’s obvious to a fifteen year old reading through a few pages of a blog he shared with the world then maybe what he felt was real which just made it worse. John hadn’t let himself think those words about his best friend for so long that hearing someone else say it made it too real.

“But - but - why didn’t you ever say-”

“Oliver, drop it.”

Oliver frowned, his eyes flicking across John face, before he said, quieter, “Did you even  _ realize _ you were - I mean before -”

“It doesn’t matter,” John said firmly. It does matter. He realized too late, and he couldn’t let himself think like this again. “I shouldn’t have let you read any of that, you don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Yes I do!” Oliver shouted, standing up. The chair scraped the floor as it pushed out behind him. “Have you even  _ read _ your writing? How did Sherlock - out of everyone - not notice?”

“Stop!” John shouted back. “It doesn’t matter. It was two years ago, Oliver. I shouldn’t have written like that.”

“Sherlock shouldn’t have been so blind!” Oliver shouted. “How the hell did you deal with that  _ alone _ after he died? You didn’t tell anyone?”

“What was there to tell?” John snapped. “There’s nothing to talk about here, and I won’t listen to a fifteen year old lecture me about something he doesn’t understand!”

Oliver looked like he’d been slapped and John squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his palms into his eyes. He sighed. “I’ll be back.”

Then he spun around and left the flat in a hurry, not coming back until the sun disappeared and he was sure Oliver would be in his own room. John didn’t sleep much that night, unwanted emotions crawling into his chest and gnawing at his his frayed grasp of emotional control. He wouldn’t think about Sherlock - it didn’t matter. It’s been so long, it shouldn’t affect him anymore. He’s fine. Everythings fine. It doesn’t matter.

Oliver never brought it up again, and John found that broken little box in his mind to push everything back into.

* * *

John kicked off his shoes and sighed, tired from working overtime but relieved he didn’t have to work the rest of the weekend.

Oliver looked up from his sketchbook. “I have a school project to work on tomorrow, do you mind if I go to a cafe to work on it after school?”

“Alone?” John asked, walking into the kitchen and pulling a mug out of the cabinet.

Oliver followed him. “No, it’s a group project. I’m working with that kid from Wales. It’s a literature project, which Emily is good at so she might help too.”

John poured hot water into his mug and raised an eyebrow. “That’s fine, just text me when you’re there and when you’re coming home.”

John pulled out his phone and sent a text to Harry, wondering if she’d want to have lunch with him during the time Oliver would be out. She responded positively, but said Gen couldn’t make it because she was away visiting family.

Harry arrived in the afternoon on Saturday, half an hour after Oliver left. They sat at the table, talking and laughing. As much as John enjoyed going out with Harry, Gen, and Oliver, it felt nice just to talk alone with his sister for a while. He was glad they fixed their rocky relationship.

“So, John,” Harry said, her voice changing a bit. “I want your opinion on something.”

John took a drink of his water and waited for her to continue.

“You know I’ve been dating Genevieve for over a year now… and I was thinking-” Her face tinged a bit red, which John rarely ever saw it do. Harry reached into her pocket and pulled out a glittering ring. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

John gaped at the ring, then grinned. “That’s great, Harry! I’m so happy for you!”

Harry smiled too, “You think it’s a good idea? I’m not rushing it? I really don’t want to mess this up.”

“I think if the time feels right for you, then do it,” John said. He held out his hand. “May I see it?”

Harry gingerly handed it to him and he twisted it between his fingers. It didn’t have a huge diamond in the middle, like most engagement rings. Instead, this one had a simple silver band and three small diamonds on the surface. “It’s very pretty,” John said, handing it back.

“She’ll love it,” Harry said, putting it back in her jacket.

“You have to call me as soon as you ask her.”

“I will,” Harry smiled.

She left about an hour later, and John got a text from Oliver saying he was on his way back. John busied himself cleaning up the kitchen and doing some dishes until he heard the front door open, then Oliver thump up the stairs. John leaned out to the landing.

“What did I tell you about taking the stairs three at a time?” John scolded.

Oliver gave him a sheepish grin, crouching down to untie his shoes. “Sorry.”

John shook his head. “You’re going to fall on your face again.”

Oliver shrugged and John stepped back into the kitchen. “Did you get your work done?

“Yes,” Oliver said, walking into the sitting room and dropping his bag on a chair. “Emily wouldn’t stop arguing with Caden, but it wasn’t too bad.” He flopped down into a chair at the desk. “I guess he’s not too bad though, maybe I should be friends with him.”

John smiled, drying off a plate and putting it away. “I told you making friends isn’t that bad.”

Oliver was quiet for a minute and John looked through the doorway to see him looking intently out the window.

“Oliver?”

The boy turned to him with a smile. “You know, I can’t remember ever being this happy with life before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little dull, sorry. This chapter sets up a couple plot points for the next fics in this series.
> 
> Also, the next update is the last one for this fic, guess what that means ;)
> 
> After I post next week's chapter, there's going to be a SHORT HIATUS. By short I mean it's only a week and a half, just so I have a bit of time to get farther ahead of the updates.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me!!


	16. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all BELIEVE this is the last chapter? AND I ALMOST FORGOT TO POST IT? ....I can't.
> 
> Anyways, yes, this is the last chapter of Where You Can't Quite Reach. BUT HOLD ONTO YOUR SOCKS - there is going to be two more fics in this series. **The first chapter of the sequel will be posted August 28th (a Monday).** The reason I pushed back the date to two weeks from now, is because I'm starting college in a few days and don't want to worry about updating for a bit. I hope you all understand.
> 
> Subscribe/follow the series (by clicking on the link "Oliver Scott 'Verse") so you don't miss it!!
> 
> \----------X----------
> 
> HUGE SHOUTOUT TO THE USERS: **Sandrina** , **mimi_the_kawaii_castiel_lover** and **enrapturedreader** FOR COMMENTING ON ALMOST EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER SINCE THE BEGINNING. I do read _every single comment_ and respond to every single one. If I ever missed one, I'm sorry. I appreciate ALL of you so much, your reviews are what keep this story going.
> 
> I won't keep you up here any longer, I'm sure you want to read. So, here's the final chapter and I hope to see you all in the next one.

On a lazy Sunday at the end of May, John and Oliver sat at the kitchen table, talking tiredly over breakfast when John’s cellphone rang and he picked it up without looking at the screen. He put it to his ear, and was met with his sister  _ screeching _ , making him jolt and drop the phone.

Oliver startled, hearing it too, before John grabbed the phone and put it a safe distance away from his ear. 

“Harry?” He asked.

“JOHNNY!” She shrieked. “SHE SAID YES!

John laughed. “Take it down a bit, Harry, you’ll break my phone with that screeching.”

Harry gasped. “John. She said yes, I can’t believe she said yes!”

“That’s great!” John said, not being able to help himself with a smile. “Have you had time to think about a wedding date yet?”

“I don’t know yet,” Harry said, her voice still pitched in excitement and her words tumbling out almost faster than John could comprehend them. “I really want an autumn wedding, but we want to get married as soon as possible, but we’re not sure about the weather yet, and I guess there’s a bunch of stuff we have to plan - oh! What if we eloped? No, too many people would be upset that they missed out, hm -”

“Harry, take a breath,” John laughed. “Talk to Gen about it.”

“Oh, right, yes!” Harry said, then gave a quick goodbye and ended the call.

John shook his head and put the phone down.

“That was Harry?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, she and Gen are engaged,” John told him.

“It’s about time,” Oliver smiled. He picked up their empty plates and brought them to the sink, then turned on the water.

“Have you been studying for your finals?” John asked, opening the newspaper left on the table.

“Of course,” Oliver said. “Only three more weeks of school, but I don’t have any exams the last week because my teachers are letting me take mine early. I don’t have any other work to do, since I finished most of it anyways.”

“That’s good, I’m very proud of you,” John said.

* * *

The next few weeks passed quickly, and Oliver passed all his exams, not to the surprise of John. He received Oliver’s final marks the day before his last day of school, and once again he was one of the top students in his class. Oliver would be home before John on his last day, as he wouldn’t have his astronomy club, but John figured they would go out to eat somewhere nice to celebrate.

John ended up coming home late anyways, and was a little more than surprised when he found Oliver in his room with Emily and another boy he hadn’t met yet. He didn’t mind that Oliver invited them over, but he was shocked Oliver  _ wanted _ people to come over.

Oliver looked up from where he sat on the floor with his back against the bed. “Oh, hello John. Surgery run late again?”

John nodded. Emily greeted him from where she lay on her stomach across the foot of Oliver’s bed. “Hi Emily, how’s your aunt?”

“She’s doing well.”

Oliver gestured to the boy sitting at the desk chair. “This is Caden, we worked on that project together a while ago.”

“Hello. You’re in Oliver’s class?”

Caden had dark brown hair, and looked a little taller than Oliver. He nodded with a polite smile, “Yes, sir.”

Oliver looked up to him, “Caden this is John, my - my dad.”

John paused for a second, then met Oliver’s eyes when he looked up. They’d never discussed the technicalities of the adoption, and John never thought to bring it up. He’s glad Oliver did on his own terms, and John’s heart swelled with pride.

Remembering what he wanted to tell Oliver, he said, “We’re going out to eat tonight, so get ready when you have them leave.”

“Okay,” Oliver smiled. “Thank you.”

John nodded and left from the doorway, leaving the door open.

* * *

“That’s your dad?” Caden asked. “You two don’t looked much alike.”

Oliver nodded. “Well - I was adopted.”

“Oooh.”

“Anyways,” Emily interrupted, glaring at Caden over the top of Oliver’s head. She twirled two pieces of his hair together. “We were talking about the summer project. Technically I can’t group with you two since I’m in the year below you, but we can still work on it together.”

Caden spun in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. “It’s not like the teachers will stop us.”

“Have either of you thought about topics yet?” Oliver asked. The teachers asked them to coming up with a history related topic to study and present during the beginning of the next school year. All the grades had to do it, and students could be in a group of up to four people in the same year.

“I bet you’ll do something with art-history, won’t you?” Emily teased, pulling at Oliver’s hair so it looked like he had horns on either side of his head. He swatted her hands away and she rolled off the bed to sit next to him on the floor.

Oliver rolled his eyes. He wasn’t that predictable.

Caden laughed. “You still have to let me look at some of your drawings.”

“ _ I’ve _ seen them, Ollie only shows his art to people he’s really close with,” Emily bragged, smirking at Caden.

“Except that’s not true,” Oliver said. “You  _ stole _ my notebook and ran into the girl’s bathroom.”

“Yeah - but you followed me in, you moron,” Emily argued.

Oliver felt his face heat up. “Sod off. We were talking about school.”

Caden spoke, “We could all to the same topic, so Emily can work with us. Just hand in different projects, since Emily can’t be in our group.”

“What topics are we thinking?” Emily asked.

“I haven’t thought of any yet really,” Caden admitted.

Oliver tugged at one of his curls. “What about crime history?”

A few hours later when Oliver’s friends left, he came out of his room and pulled on his shoes. “Where are we going to eat?”

John closed his laptop and stood up from the sofa. “Where ever you want - we’re celebrating that you’re top of the class for two years in a row.”

Oliver smiled. “Italian?”

* * *

The summer turned out to be grey and humid, much like the past spring. With more rain and basically awful weather in general. John had held onto a little bit of hope that it would be nicer, but he knew not to expect a nice summer like last year’s. Especially in a place like London, when it seemed like the only two seasons were rain and mud. It felt like the world trying to warn him of something. Like a bad omen.

John laughed outloud at the thought, earning him an odd look from Oliver.

It surprised him that Oliver went out more. He spent a few days a week going out with his two friends, which surprised John at first and left him a little lonely in the evenings but he definitely was grateful Oliver finally started to accept he had friends. The boy liked to pretend he dreading going out and working on a summer project he mentioned, but he always came home in a good mood.

His rubik’s cube sat on the mantel, untouched for almost a month.

John got Fridays off from from the surgery, working extra hours on Mondays instead, so Oliver and him could spend the evenings together. Oliver changed the hours his guitar lessons were so they were during the long hours John worked on Mondays. During the day when John wasn’t home Oliver would help Mrs Hudson with chores or errands, occasionally go out to lunch with Mycroft or go with his friends.

The routine was mundane, but full of moments that made every second worth it. Oliver managing to blow up tomato sauce all over the kitchen stood out as a good one. Another night they stayed up for a movie marathon that Oliver fell asleep halfway through, a pillow tucked under his arm and his head squished against the arm of the couch. Occasionally, Oliver pulled John out of bed at an ungodly hour so they could go to the park and see a passing meteor or a star alignment.

The two year anniversary of Sherlock’s death passed, and that morning John found himself going about his day as usual. He took a moment in the middle of the day to talk to Mrs Hudson, who was particularly missing the man on that day. The elder Holmes called and talked to Oliver and him for a little while, but their conversation consisted of lighthearted small talk and a few laughs. That night, John realized that he had moved on the best he probably ever would.

At the beginning of August, a month a a half before Oliver’s first day back at school, John started to wonder if they should take a long weekend trip somewhere. The muggy weather really had started to wear down on him and he wanted to go somewhere with clear air. Not all the way to Botany Bay again, but maybe they could find a little inn out in the country for a weekend.

“Oliver, would you like to go up north for a couple of days, just to get out of this weather?” John asked.

Oliver looked up from his book. “Definitely,” his eyes flicked to the window behind John. “It looks kind of nice out right now, do you want to go for a walk?”

John leaned back from the desk and looked outside. The sun shone from behind the clouds, and the few trees on their street blew gently in a breeze. “Let’s go. Maybe Mrs Hudson will join us?”

“I’ll go ask her,” Oliver said, grabbing his shoes and stumbling down the stairs as he put them on. John pulled his own shoes on and turned off the television. He walked down the stairs and met Oliver at the bottom.

“She’s out right now,” Oliver shrugged, opening the door. “Can we walk around the park? The shade will be nice.”

“Lead the way,” John gestured. 

John liked taking walks with Oliver. They hadn’t done it much this summer, but they used to a lot. They talked about a book they had both recently read, and a painting Oliver was working on. John mentioned a few places they could go on their short trip, but it ended up undecided for the moment.

Oliver said he’d learned two new songs on his guitar, but still wasn’t quite confident enough to play for anyone. John had heard him a few times a week regardless, trying to practice quietly in his room, but the soft melodies reaching the sitting room. John really wanted to get a picture of him playing, to hang next to a few of the other embarrassing photos he’d taken of Oliver just being Oliver.

John asked about the summer project Oliver and his friends were working on.

“It’s just about done,” Oliver said, kicking a rock ahead of them. “I only have two pages left on my research paper, and Caden’s gathering the all the book sources we used. Emily has to used different ones because she’s not really supposed to work with us. I’m kind of worried that it’s not enough work - it seemed too easy.”

John smiled and shook his head, bumping Oliver’s shoulder. “You’ll ace it, you always do.”

They don’t head home until the sun was almost setting. They lost track of time and ended up walking all over the city before realizing how far away they were. Then looking at the map on Oliver’s phone and arguing over the quickest route back, before Oliver tried to race ahead of John - only for John to catch up to him easily and mess up his hair.

Oliver beat John to Baker Street and they laughed breathlessly while walking up to 221B. John pushed open the door, thinking that today definitely was one of the memorable days amongst the mix of mundane.

He started up the stairs when his phone beeped and he paused, lifting it out of his pocket to see a message from Mycroft:

_ Don’t let Oliver into the flat. _

John’s eyebrows drew forward, and he looked back at Oliver. The boy bent down, unlacing his trainers. John’s phone beeped again - still Mycroft.

_ I’m sorry. _

_ A car will be outside shortly. _

Now John frowned, concern and a bit of panic washing over him. What was Mycroft on about? The man sending cryptic messages and random cars felt like the norm, but usually John had a bit of context and it hadn’t happened in quite a while. It seemed so out of the blue. 

He continued up the stairs, starting a message back to ask what Mycroft meant. He pushed open the door to their flat, looked up and froze.

There he stood. Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
